


Dream Eater

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Anxiety, Bottom Will Graham, Childhood Memories, Creature Fic, Dark Will Graham, Dragons, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal, monster under the bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal has been having nightmares, as well as visits from an anonymous friend who seems happy to eat his leftovers and leave him presents. While trying to figure out what’s been troubling his sleep, he ends up finding Will, a dream eater who helped him when he was a child, and has come back to help him again.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 91
Kudos: 691
Collections: MHBB2019, Wendigo & Stag





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Neph for the lovely art! I absolutely adore it, darling, and I'm so glad you chose my fic to illustrate. <3  
> Link to art: https://twitter.com/HigherMagic/status/1199453124416720896?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/callmenephila/status/1202285244604387328

One of the best cures for anxiety is a solid routine. Such has it been for many years for Hannibal – he wakes, makes himself breakfast, goes to the grocery store if he has need of anything, and returns home in time to unpack it all and ready himself for his first client of the day. Then, the humdrum of sheep wailing and moping about whatever terrible blight they have suffered, be it unfaithful husbands, a creeping sense of despair over the state of the world, worry over their children going off to college and getting into 'God knows what'.

Then, when the day is done, if he has need for it, he will go hunting for his chosen meat. This usually takes well into the night, and can come with surprises of its own, but it rarely deviates from the normal routine: choose a target, follow them for a time, learn their comings and goings, and then strike. The action of harvesting and dissecting is as well-known to him as the keys of a piano, the lines of veins and ripple of muscle. The resistance of bone against his saw, the splash of blood as it congeals around his hands, his wrists, his feet.

All part of the routine, and one he greatly enjoys.

When he is finished with his hunt and harvest, he prepares what he must, grinds organ meat to make sausages, fillets and sections out thighs, shoulders, and ribs. Removes and vacuum seals both kidneys, the liver, and the stomach. He breaks down the carcass until it is merely piles of bone and what clinging flesh he did not care to take, set haphazardly in the corner by one of the drains.

He used to dispose of the body in the same night he hunted it, not wanting it to begin rotting and stinking up the place, but he doesn't need to worry about that anymore.

He sheds his plastic suit and hangs it in the corner, knowing it will be clean come morning, and sighs, rinsing his hands though he has no need to clean himself there thanks to the protective layer. Still, it's part of the routine; a leftover habit from his days as a surgeon.

He goes to bed, and removes his clothes of the day, placing his shoes neatly by his closet, unravelling and rolling his tie, replacing it in its drawer since he can wear it again without having to wash it. His suit jacket returns to the closet, along with the matching suit pants, and he unbuttons his shirt and pushes it into the hamper, leaving him in only his underwear and socks. He goes back to his drawers and pulls out a large t-shirt and lounge pants, putting those on, and takes off his socks, balling them up and putting them in the hamper atop his shirt.

All of this, another carefully cultivated part of his routine. He hasn't had to do anything different for many nights, not since he found himself no longer alone in his house.

He turns the bathroom light on as he enters, the fan kicking into gear with a soft whir, and brushes his teeth, combs the product from his hair, and washes his face. Cleans his hands, again, much more thoroughly this time, making sure there is no dirt under his nails or around his cuticles. He will shower after a hunt if the sheep put up a particularly good fight, but alas, tonight was not one of those nights.

He turns the light off as he exits, and smiles when, just for a moment, there is a blinking glow of two large golden eyes beneath his bed, before the glow disappears. He goes to his bed, navigating perfectly well in the dark, and climbs in beneath the pulled-back blankets and sheets, settling with a sigh. He used to stay up late, reading or working on his notes, but finds that sleep is much more welcome than it used to be. When he was younger, he loathed the idea of losing so much time, and between the life of a surgeon and his extracurriculars, he honed an innate ability to fall into deep sleep rather quickly, and evolved his body to exist on no more than four or five hours a night.

Now, though, he relishes his dreams, craves the moment when his consciousness slips into the unknown, and he can wander the landscapes that used to put him ill at ease.

He settles with another sigh, and closes his eyes. Beneath his bed, there is a noise, a soft and low purr like a large wildcat receiving scratches behind its ears.

He smiles. "Goodnight, Will," he murmurs, and as he sinks down into sleep, he lets one of his hands fall over the edge of the bed, and feels a tender brush of gentle, sharp claws against his knuckles.

**Six Months Ago**

It is another morning of waking up in a cold sweat, shadows and snarling beasts clawing at the edges of his consciousness, that greets Hannibal as he rises. He clears his throat and rubs his hand over his neck, grimacing at the feeling of cold, clammy skin beneath his palm.

This is ridiculous. He is not one prone to nightmares, especially of this sort – they would be forgivable if, perhaps, they contained anything that compared with his daily life. Perhaps he is due, one day, to develop a sense of guilt over his hunts, to have his victims come to him in his dreams and scream and torment him. But no, that is not what he dreams about.

He is not certain what he dreams about. Merely minutes after he wakes, the dreams fade, leaving him only shaken and with a terrible sense of unease sitting in the base of his skull as if someone has put an iron weight within it.

He used to have dreams like this, right after Mischa died. Before he finally found the strength and reason, the excuse, one might say, to become the creature that he is. They would make him wake up screaming in the orphanage, clawing at his neck and stomach, still able to feel the pressure of claws and savage teeth trying to rip him apart.

He could have been overwhelmed by those men. Could have easily been the one whose flesh thickened the soup, and yet he hadn't been, and for a while he had thought that this was his punishment; to be haunted by those men's faces, to be torn to shreds inside his mind with…not guilt, no, not guilt, but the terrible promise of 'What if's.

Time reverts for no man, and knowing this, Hannibal knew he could not afford to linger on the past. And so he didn't – at least, not that part of it. He didn't think about how his teenage self versus however many men had tried to kill him didn't favor him in the odds. He could not go back, and so he moved forward, and became the best at what he does. The best hunter, the apex predator, the only one of his kind.

Those dreams faded away, as most childhood fears do. Still, it was a long time before Hannibal could go to sleep in complete darkness.

He pushes himself out of bed, wincing at the cling of his sweat-damp clothes, and hurries to the shower, shedding his clothes quickly and stepping under the spray before it has time to properly heat up. He shudders, wiping away the sweat clinging to him like a film, and with it, the lingering uneasiness his nightmares bring.

He finishes his shower as quickly as he can, wary because usually being caught in the throes of a nightmare often means he oversleeps as well, as if his unconsciousness will not let him go and is determined that he sees it through. He gathers his discarded clothes and a towel, drying himself off as he tosses them in his hamper, and sees with dismay that, yes, he _has_ overslept. By quite a margin.

Thankfully his first appointment isn't for another hour, but he will not have time to go to the store this morning, and he's out of milk.

His lips purse in aggravation, and he sighs, finishing with drying himself off and going to his closet to ready himself for the day. The action of putting on his clothes is another calming thing, and if he were interested in analyzing his actions, he could say that he adds an extra layer of protection between him and the outside world in the form of an undershirt, and a vest, as well as his usual suit.

He sighs, and goes downstairs, and freezes when he sees that the hatch door in the middle of the floor, leading to his basement, is open.

He is immediately on high alert, and goes to the knife block, pulling out the largest butcher's knife readily available to him. He breathes in, deeply, but can catch no scent or trace of another person passing through his home. He checks the front door. It's still locked.

He presses his lips together, and returns to the kitchen. He descends the stairs slowly, carefully, waiting for any telltale brush of air, any sound of movement, anything to give away that whoever left his basement open is still there.

He turns on the light, and sees nothing. Not only nothing, but an absence of anything. The pile of limbs and bared bones he had left in the corner to be disposed of today is no longer there – or, rather, it is there, but the bones have the bright bleach-white of age, completely stripped of meat and viscera. There is nothing gathered in the bucket holding them, nor any trace of blood and organ drippings on the table. He cannot even smell evidence it was ever there.

He swallows, shifting his weight, and turns to see his plastic suit hanging where he left it, utterly devoid of any evidence suggesting he had worn it the night before. Tucked within the chest is a single piece of white paper.

He approaches it, and carefully unzips the suit so he can retrieve the paper. Inside, written in a slanted, scrawling black ink, are the words; "Almost as delicious as your dreams. Thanks, baby."

He frowns, and rereads the message, before he carefully folds it and tucks it into the breast pocket of his suit. There is no one here; no one in the basement, and no one in the house. For good measure, he checks the drawers where he stores the bodies that he is not yet ready to harvest, and finds nothing more than Mister Goldboro, who had decided to try and embezzle from one of Hannibal's accounts, thus earning his place here.

Deeply troubled and more than a little uneasy, he closes and latches the drawer, leaves the basement, and turns the light off. He closes the hatch with a firm push of his heel upon it, and returns the knife to its block.

"Hannibal, I mean this in the nicest and most respectful way possible, but you don't look good."

Hannibal nods, sighing to himself. Forgoing breakfast and unable to pack a lunch, he had found himself in the cafeteria of Johns Hopkins. He still frequents the place, wanting to keep up to date on the latest medical research, and therefore often crosses paths with Alana – his former mentee, and now a resident therapist in the psychiatric wing of the hospital.

"I have found myself recently troubled with strange dreams," he murmurs, and meets her eyes steadily. Her brow is creased with concern, her lips turns downwards in a worried frown. "Dreams I am unable to analyze, as I often wake with no memory of the details."

"I'm sorry," she says, soft with sympathy. Her head tilts. "Have you recently gone through any emotional upheaval, or a drastic change in routine?"

He smiles at her. "Are you trying to diagnose me?" he asks, and her cheeks flush a delicate pink. She lowers her eyes and fidgets with her fork, absently pushing the remains of her salad around on her plate. "I appreciate the sentiment, but no; nothing in my life has recently changed so drastically that I would react in the negative. Unless my subconscious and I are in disagreement."

She laughs, softly, and runs a hand through her hair. She's wearing a new perfume, something sweet and honey-like; cinnamon and vanilla. It calls to mind spiced desserts come autumn time, though it's not quite the season for that. Perhaps she is courting someone new; she often changes her perfume to suit a potential new mate.

"Well, if you ever feel the need to talk about it, you can come find me," she says, earnest and transparent in her concern. "I've been doing a lot of research and reading several studies on the psychology of sleep. Interpreting dreams." Hannibal's head tilts, and her flush deepens. "I have a patient who is almost completely unresponsive except when in a fugue state. I've been hypnotizing her in an effort to determine the cause."

"With any success?" Hannibal asks. Though he himself puts very little stock in the interpretation of dreams, and prefers the clear-cut analysis of the waking world, there are some less-evolved of the species who appreciate the science. The mind is a powerful thing, and when one is less aware of their mind than he is, he supposes one might dream up all manner of things that are open to interpretation. Anxiety can manifest itself in so many ways.

"A little," Alana says with a nod, brightening at the prospect of Hannibal showing interest in her work. She meets his eyes and smiles. "She has a fear of being hunted."

So many of the sheep do, Hannibal thinks.

"I'm not sure what's causing the fear, yet, but I think with continued therapy we'll be able to figure it out," Alana adds with another nod, and takes a bite of her salad, washing it down with water. "If you're interested, I'm sure she'd be alright with you sitting in on a session with me. Maybe it will pique your curiosity."

He smiles at her. "Perhaps," he agrees with a gracious tilt of his head. He does not think of the folded note in his pocket, and tries not to wonder what it could mean, that a dream could be 'delicious'. Meat, yes, spices and vegetables and all things that make a good meal. Things that provide nourishment, like culture and entertainment and the companionship of good friends. But dreams are too insubstantial, too private, to be described as such.

Alana nods, and looks at her watch. "I have to go," she murmurs, soft with apology. She stands, and Hannibal follows suit, in no mood to continue trying to choke down the subpar offering the cafeteria contains today. "Let me know if you're interested."

"I will, thank you," he tells her, following her to the little station where they can discard their leftovers, and set the empty trays and cups on the shelf rack. She gives him one more fond smile, and turns to go. He walks with her until they part ways outside the cafeteria – she goes left, towards the psychiatric ward, and Hannibal turns right, towards the lobby.

He finds himself, despite his best efforts, lingering on the note, and as he returns to his office to await his next patient, he sits at his desk and takes the note out of his pocket, flattening it on the desk atop his appointment book.

The lettering is almost childlike, though he finds most people write in a haphazard way nowadays, since the written word is so often cast aside in favor of machines, of computers and phones. Calligraphy and elegant script are arts fast fading.

Still, he has dabbled in graphology, and finds himself calling to mind that past-learned information. The handwriting is irregular, aggressively slanted, the crossed 'T's and dotted 'I's heavy and pointed, slanting sharply across the paper. It's a page out of one of his notebooks, so he can assume that it was left as an opportunistic message, and not something planned.

Normally heavy-handed writing suggests brutality, the harsh slant of the words denoting a cruel nature. And yet the word 'baby' is almost delicate in comparison, the 'Y' curling into a little spiral at the end. The word itself is interesting, as it suggests intimacy and that, somehow, whoever this stranger is, they have met before.

He doesn't recognize the handwriting, though he didn't expect to. But this person – a man, he thinks, for there is something decidedly masculine about the script, though he can't be certain – knew how to get into Hannibal's home undetected. He locked the door behind himself, and picked the lock to get in. He knew about the hidden basement hatch, and….

He knew what he would find, down there. He appreciated the offer, and thanked Hannibal for it. 'Almost as delicious as your dreams', which is an odd sentence, but implies that, as Hannibal suspected, the remnants of his kill had been devoured raw, for he had smelled no attempt at cooking in his kitchen this morning.

So, this nameless, faceless man had entered Hannibal's home, devoured his leftovers, cleaned up after himself, and left a note of thanks, like a beggar stealing bread from the inn on his way through town.

It's quite rude, almost unforgivably presumptuous, and terribly intriguing. He must know this man, whoever he is, and figure out just how, exactly, they knew each other back then. How does this man know him, to call him 'baby'?

The knock at his door startles him out of his thoughts, and he sighs, folding and pocketing the note and tucking it back into his breast pocket, before he rises, and opens the door with one of his well-practiced, cordial smiles.

"Good evening, Franklyn," he says, and lets the squirrelly man in. "Have a seat."

The next morning sees him waking in a similar state, drenched in cold sweat and trembling as though with fever. He's not sick, he would know if he was getting sick, and has none of the other classic symptoms of flu or anything else – no, this is all internal, all mental. Whatever is plaguing his dreams is damaging enough to negatively affect his physical performance, and if he continues to allow it to happen, it won't be long before he is too tired or too weak, and does something stupid that means he fails, either with his patients, or with his hunts. The first is unforgiveable for his pride. The second has much more dire real-world consequences.

This cannot continue. Decided, he forces himself from his bed, showers off the gross stick of sweat from his body, and changes into suit pants and a red button-down for the day. He doesn't have any patients, thankfully, and so he busies himself in the morning with stripping his bed and washing his sweat-stale sheets, as well as the rest of his laundry. While that begins its cycle, he goes to his kitchen to prepare breakfast for himself.

His eyes linger on the hatch. It is closed, hardly noticeable unless one knows what to look for.

He presses his lips together, and leaves the organ meat he had taken out with the intent to create sausage patties, and opens the hatch. He turns on the light and heads down, finding that, again, nothing is out of place. He didn't hunt last night, so there is no fresh meat to be had, nor any bones to strip clean. He had gone to dispose of the bones, so even that bucket is spotless and devoid of stains.

He looks towards his plastic suit, and sees another piece of white, folded up paper, pressed within the transparent plastic. A shiver runs down his spine, and he goes to it, taking the note out and unfolding it, finding the same aggressive, dark scrawl.

It reads; "You didn't hunt last night. I left you a present. Check your back door."

He frowns, and hurries back up the stairs, paper in hand, and turns the light off behind him, closing the hatch because it would be foolish to leave it open when someone may stop by. He goes to the back door and opens it.

There, sitting on the single concrete step, is a small organ transplant box. It is pristine and white, and on top of it sits a single cluster of leaves, wrapped like a bouquet. They are vibrant in color, green around the edges, turning a bright yellow, and then a deep red in the middle, highlighting each line within them.

He frowns, crouching down, and carefully removes the plants, and the lid of the box. Inside is a heart – human, he would guess, given what little he knows about his nameless new acquaintance – and another piece of folded paper.

He takes it, careful not to get any blood on his fingers, though the heart itself seems clean and well-kept, a perfect specimen and quite large. Even, he notices, prepared so that it has been rid of cartilage and inedible tendon. This note reads; "This plant apparently tastes like a combination of oregano and mint. I wouldn't know what either thing tastes like, but they recommend it for meat. Try it, and let me know if you like it."

Hannibal's frown deepens, and he hurriedly stands, securing the lid of the box and taking it inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He sets the box atop his kitchen counter, and, after a moment of thought, puts the organ meat back in the fridge.

He considers the box, as well as the plant leaves left for him. So, his new friend definitely knows about his extracurricular habits and his chosen meat. He knows enough to know when Hannibal leaves to go hunting, which is a troubling thought – he can't remember a feeling of being watched, which is one he has taken great strides to hone as a skill. One cannot be a predator such as he is and not be aware of one's surroundings at all times.

Someone is watching him. He thinks this might be the most disconcerting notion of all. Not only that, but someone is brazen enough to come and leave a human heart at his back door and Hannibal doesn't know enough about him to know if he's as careful as Hannibal is.

One thing is for certain, he thinks as he removes the heart from the box, throws the box away, and begins to heat a skillet as he slices the heart on a cutting board, admiring the dark redness of the innards, the perfectly-intact heartstrings, aortas, ventricles still somewhat slick on the inside with lingering blood and plasma: he cannot continue in this way, with someone who has easy access to his home and all the private things within it, without Hannibal knowing who he is. One option would be to simply stay awake, to lure him in, and see if he takes the bait, but Hannibal is tired and cannot guarantee that his patient new friend will not simply wait until exhaustion overcomes him.

The second option is, perhaps, to install something to watch for him. He could put a camera by the front door, and the kitchen, and the back door, and as long as he doesn't hunt during those times and therefore risk incriminating himself, he may catch his friend leaving him another 'present'.

Decided, and with no patients to see to today, he nods to himself and finishes preparing his breakfast, smiling at the thick, meaty flavor of the heart as it sears and fills the air with the scent of cooking organ meat. He boils the plant leaves and adds sugar and more mint, creating a thick jelly-like sauce, and eats slices of the heart on toasted bread with the jelly as a topping.

It's quite delicious, and at a loss of what else to do, he writes so on the back of the note that was left in the box, and tapes it to the outside of his back door, before he dresses for the day, dons his coat, and shoes, and leaves his house, being sure to lock it behind him.

The setup he purchases is simple, and easy to install himself, which is by design. He doesn't need yet _more_ people traipsing through his house at the moment. The cameras are motion-sensitive, and each come with a memory card capable of storing twelve hours of footage, and he buys a backup battery for each, as he knows that depending on how lively his friend is, they may come on several times during the night.

He installs the first one to watch the front door, so that if it were to open, the camera would catch it – it sits in the corner of the door that leads to the dining room, angled to catch both the door to the kitchen and the front door, as well as the bottom of the stairs.

The second he places to peer through his kitchen window, that will catch the back door and see if anyone approaches it.

The third he places at the door to the pantry, angled so that it can see the hatch. He checks that they are all active, and links them to his tablet, which he takes to bed and sets on his bedside table so that he can check it first thing in the morning.

Then, there is only the need to wait. It is still early evening, and he is tired, but refuses to do anything to deviate from his routine in case his friend is watching him. If he sees the cameras installed and becomes shy, well, Hannibal can wait him out. Or if he never shows up again, well…

He tries not to think about that. 'What If's have plagued him for far too long.

He entertains himself with playing the piano, attempting to complete the composition and finding that, as usual, the ending eludes him. All in all, it has been a frustrating couple of days, so much so that he finds himself forgoing wine and, instead, reaching for a high-proof brandy that has sat in the liquor cabinet for almost as long as he has resided in this house.

He pours himself an amount that, if a guest requested it, would have him raising his eyebrows, and settles with a sigh on one of the comfortable leather couches within his study, contemplating the barren, empty fireplace and sipping at his drink. After another moment of thought, he rises and fetches his tablet from his bedside table, and opens it to the local news to see if there are any articles referencing his friend, or a body with a missing heart.

There is nothing. Given what he knows about his new friend and his eating habits, perhaps that should not surprise him. Maybe the only thing left to find of the body is bones.

He sighs, and finishes his drink, the heated bloom of alcohol warming his stomach and chest, and rises, rinsing the glass and setting it to one side. He tucks his tablet beneath his arm and heads up to his bedroom, setting it down, and sheds his day clothes, changing into something more comfortable to sleep in. Before leaving to purchase the camera equipment, he had managed to dry and dress his bed, so it's easy to slide between the sheets which still cling to the heat of the drier, and cause a subtle bead of sweat to form on his brow and lower back.

He rolls onto his side and tries to get comfortable. Thankfully, his years of training himself to fall asleep quickly, combined with the exhaustion and alcohol, allow him to slip into sleep easily. He can only hope that his friend decides to show himself, for once Hannibal knows his face, it will be easier, hopefully, to go from there.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning dawns in another pool of cold sweat, and Hannibal growls to himself, uncomfortable and slick as he rises from bed, but does not go straight to the shower. He overslept, _again_ , and went to the grocery store yesterday, so he doesn't need to worry about that, but he only has an hour before he must go see his first patient, and doesn't have the time to dally.

Still, he is desperate to watch the camera feed, and see if his friend decided to show himself.

He opens up the app and pulls up the feed, which is split into three screens, the largest being the feed that shows him his kitchen and pantry, and the hatch.

He watches, and puts the feed to 16-speed. He watches himself rinse and set the brandy glass to one side, watches himself turn off the light so that only the back-porch light is on, illuminating part of the kitchen but casting the rest in shadow.

He watches, and for a time nothing happens. Ten at night turns to eleven, then midnight, then one in the morning, and then two. Other than the occasional alert from the back door depicting a squirrel passing by, or the flutter of a bird, there is nothing.

At three in the morning, the kitchen camera blinks back on. The front and back door are quiet, and silent, only the inner one turning on with an alert. Hannibal tenses, straightening, and watches as the front and back door feed do not react. The kitchen, though, darkens abruptly, as if a great shadow passed across it, obscuring all light. The feed flickers, buzzes like a corrupt VHS, a bar of grey static running down the feed, and then when the camera comes back on, the hatch is open.

Hannibal's eyes widen, and he tightens his grip around the tablet, desperately seeking any motion, any presence of a man within the darkness of the feed. There is nothing, just the open hatch. It remains open until the timestamp reads five in the morning, and then the darkness comes again with another short-out of the feed, and the hatch is closed.

He frowns, unable to see anyone or anything moving, and then the front door camera, the one he has set up to angle to the stairs and the kitchen door, darkens again, and he catches movement.

He pauses the feed, and rewinds it, pulling the front door camera up so it's the largest screen, and replays it. Again, just a little flicker of motion by the stairs. He peers closer, and rewinds it again, turning the brightness settings up on the tablet as high as they can go.

The motion comes again, just a small slip of _something_. It looks like bare feet.

Someone came up the stairs last night.

He straightens abruptly, setting his tablet down and pulling a robe on, and turns on every light in his upper floor. He checks the guest bedroom, the guest bathroom, the third bedroom that has no use save for a utilitarian setup, with a desk and a closet and nothing else. He opens every closet and peers inside, checks the windows for signs of being opened.

There is nothing. Somehow, someone came into his home and went back upstairs, and has disappeared without a trace. Hannibal cannot find any sign, smell any lingering scent other than his own. There are no interruptions within the fine layer of dust upon his bannister, no scuff marks along the floor. _Nothing_.

He breathes out. The final room to check is his own bedroom. Tense, but ready, he returns to it. He checks his closest rigorously, goes to the bathroom and pulls back the shower curtain, seeing no one hiding inside the basin. No one curled up beneath the sink, and while the places he searches are borderline ridiculous, he keeps searching, leaving no stone unturned.

He looks behind the curtains, and sees nothing.

His eyes gravitate to his bed.

He presses his lips together, and crouches down, flattening himself to the floor and peering under the fall of his blankets. There's no one there – Hannibal half-expected there to actually be a man lying flat and waiting for him.

There is, however, something dark beneath his bed. It looks like an oozing stain.

Frowning, he pushes himself upright, and sets his shoulder against his bed with a grunt, toes bent back and body aching, pushing at the bottom corner until it skates across the floor with a dull, loud screeching sound, until he can see the very edges of the stain. It is dry, and looks almost like old blood for its blackness. He frowns, crouching down, and drags his fingertips along the edges of it, finds it flaking beneath his fingernails. Clearly, whatever made it, it was done a while ago.

He lifts his fingers to his nose, breathing in deeply. The scent surprises him – it smells, if there is such a thing that mimics the feeling, like fear. Like meat, turning sour. Something dark and peaty, moss-like. Something that makes him think of shallow graves by a riverbed and iron claws ripping through flesh. Of that sinking feeling in the pit of one's stomach when they know they're being watched by a monster in the corner of the room. Indeed, Hannibal has to fight every instinct in him not to look around again, for he knows he is alone, and yet cannot help thinking, if he were to look just a little too closely, the darkness at the top of his dresser would shift and melt into shoulders and arms. Or, perhaps, if he waited long enough, the stain might smile at him.

He pushes at the bed a little further until most of the stain is revealed, and cannot find a source. There is no fresh wetness, no opening in his floorboards, nothing to tell him what caused this stain, this scent. The bottom of his mattress is clean, so it did not drip from within, and he noted no dampness or scent like this below, in the kitchen, so it did not rise from beneath the floor.

His frown deepens, and he pushes himself to his feet with a sigh. Other than the movement on the stairs and the unexplainable stain which is, for all he knows, unrelated, he cannot find any evidence that his new friend paid him a visit last night. He goes downstairs, deeply unsettled, and finds the kitchen untouched and unmoved. He opens the hatch and goes down to the basement. There are no new notes in his plastic suit.

The only conclusion he can draw, as disturbing as it is, is that he has begun to sleepwalk. It's an idea he finds very unpleasant, for if he's moving around his house and has no memory of it, it's possible he may start venturing beyond his home, totally unaware of his actions. He may do something terribly incriminating and not have the wherewithal to clean up after himself. He may do something like erase his own video feed to hide his movements, even in his sleep, rendering his camera system useless for finding his new friend.

This cannot continue. If he does not remember his dreams, he owes it to himself to discover if he is, in fact, sleepwalking, so that he can take precautions.

Decided, he calls Alana. "Good morning," he greets her when she answers, his voice hoarse from disuse. He clears his throat.

"Morning, Hannibal! Are you alright?"

"I was wondering if you were aware of any sleep studies currently going on at the hospital."

"Oh! Um, I can definitely ask around and find out, sure!" She pauses, and adds, somewhat hesitantly; "They're not going to be any use in dissecting your dreams, though, if you're remembering them and that's why you're calling me."

"No, not that," Hannibal replies. He doesn't tell her his true reason for wanting the study, both because he does not owe her one, and is in no mood to field her inevitable questions regarding the 'why', the 'when', and any possible psychological diagnoses around sleepwalking. "Please let me know as soon as you can about any openings. Thank you."

"Of course, I'll call you as soon as I know," she replies, and Hannibal thanks her again, and hangs up. He has almost no time to eat, or even shower and dress before he leaves for his first patient, so he hurries back upstairs and rinses himself off as best he can, throws on a pair of suit pants and a sweater instead of his normal jacket-button-down-tie ensemble, and leaves in a hurry.

Hannibal knows, tucked in one of the many books of information and facts lining the shelves of his memory palace, about the effects, both short-term and long-term, of sleep loss or inadequate sleep. Even one night of inadequate sleep can reduce the body's reactivity and alertness by up to a third. The ability to process and remember new information is dramatically lessened. Hannibal finds himself zoning out more than once during the first patients he has in the morning – normally he can carry on many trains of thought at once, giving each one exactly the amount of attention it needs to see itself to fruition, but listening to Missus Zimmerman's droning is only making him terribly aware of how _tired_ he is. How easy it would be to close his eyes and let himself drift off. How desperately he needs something caffeinated to keep him alert.

His patience, already thin, is on the verge of snapping when she complains, again, about her husband's loud chewing and habit of talking with his mouth full. Of course, Hannibal would find the practice similarly gauche, but this is perhaps the seventeenth time she's mentioned it in the last few sessions, and if she isn't going to do anything about her situation then damn her to Hell, and he hopes she is surrounded with loud, excessive masticators for the rest of her life.

He breathes out, and says none of that. "And how is Christine behaving through all this?" 'This' being the passing of Missus Zimmerman's mother-in-law and Christine being her twenty-three-year-old daughter, still living at home, and apparently quite a burr in Missus Zimmerman's side if the stories are to be even half-believed. Given what Hannibal knows about her, he doubts her daughter is any worse than any early-twenty-something too-aware of just how terrible the world looks for them, but he refrains from commenting.

She sighs, and rolls her eyes, which are so brown to be almost black, a slight sheen to them that Hannibal thinks may be the early stages of glaucoma. "She just shuts herself up in her room and does nothing but talk to people on the internet all day," she complains. Hannibal's lips purse. "I wouldn't mind so much if she was _doing_ something with her life. She has a master's degree, after all! And so young! But she would rather spend all her time on those forums and waste her talents with…" She gestures, a vague and dismissing motion, "Drivel."

Hannibal's head tilts. "Perhaps she finds a sense of community online," he suggests gently, in no mood for this particular sheep's bleating and grunting. "Have you spoken to her at all about her grandmother's passing?"

"No," she replies, primly. The sort of woman who doesn't acknowledge that death happens.

Hannibal sighs inwardly, and resists the urge to rub at his eyes. He is so tired, so utterly bored by this conversation, and though he makes it a habit not to check his watch or look at the clock during his sessions, the one sitting above the door, towards which he is facing, tells him he only has to bear this woman for a few more minutes.

"If I may suggest it, Georgia, it might be that Christine is keeping to herself and seeking community and connection online because she does not believe you are going to be the source of comfort she is looking for," he says, as gently as he can manage. Her brow creases, as though she genuinely didn't consider this. "We are, as humans, naturally social creatures. If you show her you are open to listening to her, and conversing with her, she may be more inclined to show you some openness in return." He smiles when she makes a curious, considering sound. "I encourage you to try, and even if she is resistant at first, be patient with her. She did just lose her grandmother, after all, and you've told me before they were quite close."

Georgia nods, and nods again, a little smile ticking at the corners of her mouth. "I think I will!" she declares, as if this was her own idea. "Yes, and maybe I can start convincing her to come to the socials with me again, and I can find her a nice boy to finally get her to settle down and start making a good woman out of her."

Hannibal winces internally, but says, "Be patient, and gentle with her. I'll see you next week."

Though it pains him to do it, Hannibal must eventually succumb to his need for caffeine, and goes to a coffee shop near his office. He orders an Americano, black and with an extra shot, and though the beans have been over-roasted and it tastes burnt, he drinks all of it. Even if he does not feel rested, he does feel more alert, and thinks he might be able to focus a little better through the rest of the afternoon.

Alana calls him as he's driving back, and Hannibal answers it, her voice coming through the Bluetooth speakers of his car. "Hello, Alana."

"Hi, Hannibal! So I spoke with a colleague of mine and he says he has a opening tomorrow night, if you're able to make it." Hannibal lets out a quiet, pleased hum – much sooner than he anticipated having to wait, which is a pleasant surprise.

"I think that will suit wonderfully," he says.

"Alright, good. I'll email you all the preparation instructions and your appointment confirmation." She pauses, and says, "He did insist I list a reason for wanting the sleep study. If you'd be more comfortable talking to him directly, of course that's fine, I can give you his number -."

"It's quite alright," Hannibal replies. "I think what I'm suffering from would best qualify as a sleep disorder. Perhaps restless limbs. Not quite insomnia." He does not, after all, have a problem _going_ to sleep. Nor does he have an issue staying asleep. Clearly during the night, he is suffering some kind of distress from his nightmares, that he cannot remember upon waking.

"Okay," Alana says, in that gentle voice Hannibal recognizes as the one she uses for patients. "Alright, I'll put you in. You'll need to show up at the center at nine tomorrow. Is that okay?"

"Wonderful," Hannibal says with a smile. "I'll be there. Thank you for organizing this, Alana – I owe you dinner."

"You got it!" she replies with a laugh. "Alright, I'm drafting the email now. You'll get it within the hour. Talk soon!"

They end the call with a round of 'Goodbye's, as Hannibal pulls up to his office again, sighing when he sees another car parked near the back entrance that he reserves for his patients. He is not late, but this particular one always arrives early. Gripping his coffee cup which now contains only the dregs, he turns off the engine, climbs out of his car, and steels himself for more of the sheep's terrible wailing.

Alana keeps to her word, and by the time Hannibal comes home, he has an email from her listing his doctor's name, the name and address of the facility – local, he notes with gratitude – as well as a bullet-pointed list of instructions for preparing for the study. It's nothing unusual, nothing he wasn't prepared for: get up at your normal time, don't sleep in; take any regular medications; no caffeine after noon, eat regularly at dinner time; try to keep to your normal daytime routine; no naps, no alcohol; no gels, ointments, or conditioner that might interfere with the placement of the sensors and electrodes.

The only one that might cause issue is the 'Try to have a normal sleep the night before the sleep study' instruction. He's not sure he'll be able to complete that part of the study, but it's all in the name of science, and he can make an attempt.

He spends his evening scrubbing the stain beneath his bed clean, or as clean as he can get it – to his critical eye, even hours and more bleach than his nose can stand later, there is still a very obvious darkness where the stain was. Still, the smell is gone, so that is a small mercy.

He checks and re-checks his front and back doors to ensure they are locked, changes the batteries for the cameras and wipes their memory cards so he doesn't run the risk of running out of memory, and corrects his bed to its proper place. There is, still, no hint of another person being in his home, no scents or anything out of place.

He sighs, and changes into clothes he can sleep in, turns off all the lights and makes sure the cameras are set to stream to his tablet, and tries to go to sleep.

This dream is not like the others, of that he is certain, and aware enough to note to himself, that he will remember it. He is in a vast darkness, stretching on in every direction he looks. There is no floor, no ceiling, but a sensation of closeness as though he could reach out and touch a wall all around him.

He hears a soft noise, like a soothing lullaby, hummed into his ear. Feels, absently as though underwater, a gentle hand in his hair. The sensation of warmth brushes up against his back like someone is cradling him in strong, loving arms. There's breath at the nape of his neck.

He closes his eyes, and doesn't feel afraid. This dream is not like the others.

"What should I call you?" he whispers, for he is certain, in that way lucid dreamers are certain of what they see, that this is his new, nameless, formless friend.

The lullaby stops, and gives way to a warm, soft laugh. He quite likes the sound of that laugh – though it's a shallow and paltry thing to think beautiful people make beautiful sounds, that laugh only makes him relax. He thinks that the man that laugh belongs to must be lovely to look at.

"Will," his friend says, and brushes a tender finger below Hannibal's jaw. Then, a moment later, "Did you like my present?"

"Very much," Hannibal replies. "Whoever told you about that plant was right – it tasted wonderful."

Another sound comes, this one much like the purr of a large cat. The warmth at his back wriggles like a happy puppy. He almost expects to hear a tail thumping. "That makes me happy," Will murmurs, and nuzzles Hannibal's neck again.

Hannibal shivers, for though he doesn't feel cold, Will's warmth permeates through his clothes, into his skin, as sure and enveloping as the darkness. "Have you been making yourself at home, Will?"

Will laughs. "I've always been here, baby," he purrs, and pets over Hannibal's belly. "I'm gonna take care of you, don't you worry about a thing."

Hannibal doesn't reply. He doesn't understand – what is there that Will feels the need to defend him from, except the monsters in his own head? "I've been having nightmares," he murmurs, and the word sounds so childish, so supremely lacking as a word. Will hums, as though in agreement.

"I know," he replies gently, and pets over Hannibal's stomach again. "I'm sorry."

Hannibal tries to turn, but finds he can't – or perhaps he is, but Will simply moves with him, always behind. He feels warmth against the back of his neck again, a soft, amused exhale like a ghost of lips. He shivers.

"I know I'm dreaming," Hannibal says quietly. "But you feel so real."

"I'm as real as everything else in this world," Will replies with another soft, sweet laugh. His fingers touch Hannibal's lower lip, and his nails feel just a little too long, a little too sharp. They press along the corner of Hannibal's mouth, his philtrum, the crease between lower lip and chin, as though testing Hannibal's physical likeness.

Will sighs, and nuzzles Hannibal's hair. "It's almost time to wake up," he says, and Hannibal tenses – he doesn't want to wake up, this is the best dream he can remember having in a while, even with all that he doesn't understand and all the questions he has. Still, he can feel the darkness ebbing, turning grey and then white like a new dawn, and as it comes, Will's presence begins to fade. The hand on his stomach and over his mouth draw away, and Will's warmth goes with it. Hannibal shivers again, and does feel cold this time.

He wakes, not in a sweat, nor trembling with horrors he cannot remember. Rather, he feels well-rested, revitalized, almost. Though he doesn't expect to see anything, he checks the tablet for the camera feeds, and sees no motion. All three of the cameras were dead all night.

He checks under his mattress, for if there is one thing he excels at, it's pattern recognition. There is another black stain, smaller this time, and he wonders if the reason it was so large before is because it has been building up for some time. It doesn't smell of fear, but rather the charcoal scent of a roasting pig, stuck in the ground and covered in leaves to cook and absorb the flavors of the earth.

He showers, and dresses, and goes downstairs, seeing that there is a piece of paper left in his normal place at the head of his dining room table. He goes to it, eager to see what message his friend has left for him this time.

It reads; "If you can, will you hunt tonight? I'm hungry."

Hannibal smiles to himself. He cannot hunt tonight, because he must go for the sleep study, but his afternoon is open, and if Will is hungry, well, Hannibal can be a gracious host. Now that he's had a good night's sleep, it seems like such a small, easy thing to offer in return.

He hunts and secures Will's meal for the evening with ease, grateful to find that fond and familiar spark of satisfaction when he returns home with his haul, bringing it to the basement to dissect and dismember. He doesn't know what part of the carcass Will prefers, and so only takes the kidneys for himself, which he will turn into his dinner. The rest, he leaves for Will, to consume as he sees fit.

He leaves a note for Will, folded inside his plastic suit; 'Help yourself, Will. I won't be home tonight, but let me know if you have a favorite piece so that I can save it for you in the future'. He has questions, of course he does, but as it stands, he is altogether too curious, too giddily intrigued, to demand answers right now. What a wonder a good night's sleep can do.

He makes his meal and does the dishes, before packing a change of clothes and something to sleep in, and heading to the sleep clinic with half an hour to spare. He is greeted by a bubbly young receptionist, her long blonde hair tied back in a severe ponytail. She smiles in a way that shows all her gums and greets him with a chipper 'Evening!', before handing him a form on a clipboard to fill in. He does so at the counter, before he tucks his bag to his side and takes his seat. There is another man in the waiting area who looks in far worse spirits than Hannibal does, bone-tired and practically falling asleep in his chair.

After a while, right as the clock ticks to nine on the dot, the door leading to the back opens and an older man in scrubs and a white coat steps out. "Hannibal Lecter?" he calls, and Hannibal straightens with a nod. "Mark Simmons?" The other man grunts, wipes a hand over his tired-looking face, and stands as well. "Good evening, gentlemen. I'm Doctor Reynolds. Right this way, if you would."

Hannibal is met by a nurse, who checks his blood pressure, his weight, and rattles through the checklist of instructions: did he have a good meal, did he take any medications, any caffeine after noon, and all the rest. She fills out his chart and hands it off to Reynolds again, who takes it with a smile. "Excellent. Right this way, please."

Hannibal nods, and pauses when another door opens, and Alana steps out. She blinks at him, and smiles widely. "Hi!"

"Good evening," Hannibal replies.

"I was just leaving, sorry, I won't get in the way," Alana says with a kind smile and a nod. "Good luck!"

"Thank you."

She passes by him and out the door, and Hannibal follows Reynolds to another door, which he opens, revealing a utilitarian room with a single bed. The walls are painted a soft grey, the floor covered in linoleum, and the bed itself is neatly made with thin-looking, white sheets and a single fleece blanket atop it.

"Go ahead and make yourself comfortable," Reynolds tells him. "Knock on the door when you're ready and we'll come place the sensors."

Hannibal nods and thanks him, and waits for the door to close before he undresses, pulling out his overnight sleep clothes, and tucks what he was wearing into his duffle bag, sliding it under the bed. He knocks on the door and Reynolds returns, and parts a set of blinds obscuring what is revealed to be a small screen for observation. The room beyond it is empty and dark, save for the glow of a computer in sleep mode.

He pulls a little rolling desk over, and Hannibal sits on the bed as he begins to sanitize the electrodes. "According to your chart, you're suffering from sleep movement disorder, and overall restlessness?"

"That's correct," Hannibal replies with a nod. "I believe that there is something interrupting my cycle just before I achieve REM sleep, so no matter how long I'm sleeping for, I do not feel rested."

He nods. "How many hours do you tend to get on average?"

"My optimal is four to five hours a night," Hannibal replies, prepared to be scolded because even then, most doctors will say it's not enough. "Recently though I have been surpassing eight hours, and still do not feel rested. It's starting to affect my daily functions."

Reynolds nods again, lips pursed. "Lie down, please," he says, and Hannibal obeys. The first two electrodes go on his chest, one on either side of his heart. Another set get placed on each temple, and he watches as Reynolds connects the wires to a little machine which, once connected, begins to waver with small dips and rises monitoring his heartbeat and his brainwaves. It is completely silent except for a very gentle scritching, which is good – Hannibal is sensitive to sound, especially in foreign places.

"I know it's uncomfortable," Reynolds says kindly, and pats him on the shoulder. "Try not to scratch or remove them during the night. Go to sleep as best you can – I will be in the observation room if you need anything. We'll be doing the study until eight in the morning, but if you wake up and don't feel like you're going to go back to sleep, we can end it early."

Hannibal nods.

"Do you need anything, before I turn off the lights?"

"No, thank you," Hannibal replies. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, and firm, just as he likes it. He fidgets absently with the fold of the blankets as Reynolds nods, checks the machine one last time, and then leaves the room, turning the lights off and closing the door behind him.

Hannibal waits until the light comes on in the observation room, until he sees the man settle down to watch and monitor his sleeping patterns. Then, he closes his eyes, and wills himself into the dogged oblivion of sleep.

Hannibal wakes in complete darkness. Not the kind of darkness that called to him the night prior, but a natural kind, that definitely hints at the normal presence of light. As well as that, a very heavy weight, perched upon his stomach, and the undeniably familiar scent of blood.

He blinks, and the lights flicker, revealing at first nothing more than a dark shadow, a prowling, formless mass of red and black flesh. Then the lights dim again, and brighten almost painfully, and he sees what is sitting on top of his stomach.

It is a man, with soft, curling brown hair, and the brightest blue eyes Hannibal has ever seen. He has a crooked nose, dark brows, a thin beard covering his cheeks and jaw. His shoulders are broad and thick with muscle, his torso comparatively skinny, his thighs tensed and bulging in his crouch. His skin is pale, his hands covered with red, and Hannibal watches, frozen in place, as he lifts one of his knuckles to his lips and sucks it clean with an obscenely loud noise.

The man smiles at him, wide, wide, and says, "Hey, baby." And his voice is familiar – suddenly, Hannibal knows exactly who he is.

"Will," he breathes, and tries to reach for him, but his arms won't obey his desire to lift. He has never had sleep paralysis before, perhaps he is just too shocked to move, but Will grins at him, tilts his head once, twice, like a ticking clock, six, seven, eight, and rolls his shoulders, wriggling in place like he's trying to get comfortable. He's bony, and digs into Hannibal's belly as he moves.

Will sucks another knuckle clean, turns and sinks his finger into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he licks it free of blood. He lets his finger go with a pop, and settles both hands on Hannibal's chest. His head tilts again, tick-tick. "Why aren't you in bed?" Will asks, and looks genuinely confused. "This isn't home."

"I thought I was sleepwalking," Hannibal replies. He turns his head and sees that the observation room is still dark. He presses his lips together. "Am I dreaming?"

Will smiles at him, and sighs. "Sure," he purrs, and leans down, cupping Hannibal's face and making him right himself so their eyes can meet again. He breathes in, lashes fluttering like he's savoring the bouquet in a wine, and the black center of his eyes flares out, and then narrows to pinpricks. The lights dim to the point where his edges become difficult to see. "Oh, I've _missed_ you."

Hannibal swallows when Will shows his teeth. They look _almost_ human, straight and white, but the canines are decidedly more pointed than those of the average man. "Forgive me, I'm not certain where we've met before."

Will shakes his head, and doesn't look offended. "It was a long time ago," he murmurs, and leans down further, until their noses brush. There's a tiny spray of blood along Will's cheek and Hannibal feels the sudden, frantic urge to wipe it clean. Still, his arms don't move. "You were just a kid."

Hannibal blinks at him, as Will nuzzles his cheek, a soft rumble in his chest that reminds Hannibal of purring wildcats. "So now you've returned," he says. "To torment me?"

Will straightens abruptly, his face rippling into a black-masked, monstrous thing, that shows teeth that stretch all the way through his jaws, and are very sharp. His eyes flash with a golden hue, pupil-less and wide. "I'm not a _demon_ ," he spits, hissing the word. His hands flex and return to Hannibal's chest, nails just a little too long to look completely normal.

"I apologize," Hannibal says roughly. "This is all new to me."

Will gentles abruptly, his anger melting faster than ice in summer. "It's a lot to take in," he says with a small nod, heavy with understanding. "But you still haven't answered my question – why aren't you at home, in your own bed?"

"I wanted to know if I had been sleepwalking," Hannibal says again, "or if there was a cause for my restless nights."

Will presses his lips together, a brief flash of sorrow, of guilt, passing over his face. "I tried," he says quietly, and meets Hannibal's eyes again. "I've been trying. It's worse than when you were a kid." Hannibal lets out a curious sound. "Your nightmares. Your, ah, imagination is a lot more active nowadays."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"It's been hard to keep up."

"What do you mean?" Hannibal asks. "What are you?"

Will's shoulders move fluidly, a languid shrug that makes his entire body roll. He sighs, tipping his head back, fingers flattening and smearing blood across Hannibal's shirt. "There's not really one universal name for us," he admits, and grins up at the ceiling. "The Japanese call us 'Baku', and say we were leftover magic from when the gods created man. Others call us 'Dream eaters', I think at one point the word 'Incubus' was thrown around, but that's not entirely accurate."

He rights himself, and his nose wrinkles. "I'm _not_ a demon," he says again, and Hannibal makes a mental note to never suggest it. "Most of the time though, we're just the monster under the bed." Will smiles, off-kilter, cheeks dimpling, and shrugs again. "Simple, but it does the trick."

"It has been you, then," Hannibal breathes. "You were the one who cleaned the carcass, who has been leaving notes. The one I saw on my security cameras." Will nods. "And the stain beneath my bed?"

"The more I eat, the easier I can take physical shape," Will says. "Before that I was just…ooze." He blanches, and then laughs. It's a nice laugh, warm and low, just like the one in his dream the night before.

"So you've been eating my dreams."

Will nods. "Your nightmares, more accurately," he murmurs. "You've been having a lot of them." Another strangely guilty expression comes over his face, and he shifts his weight and drops his gaze, another flash of gold passing across his irises. "I've been trying to help. _Obviously_ not well enough."

"Why do you want to help me?" Hannibal asks, too curious to stop himself asking. It has been a long time since he strolled through the closed halls and decrepit wings of his youth, longer still since he even thought of them, but now he feels them opening, old memories of restless nights and days filled with dread filling his brain. He couldn't remember anything when he was a child, either, and after a while they went away.

Will smiles, like the question is adorable. "Because you're mine, baby," he purrs, and tilts his head again. "We used to walk together, hand in hand, when you were a kid. I'd help you slay dragons in your dreams." He sighs. "Then you got big enough to slay them yourself. Then the dragons stopped coming. You didn't need me anymore, so I left."

He sounds so sad, so forlorn. Hannibal wants to reach out and touch him, but still, his hands won't move.

He swallows, and eyes the blood on Will's hands and mouth. "If I'm dreaming, whose blood is that?"

Will laughs. "Don't you remember leaving me a present?"

Oh, of course Hannibal did. He smiles. "Did you like it?"

"Very much," Will says with a nod. "He was lovely and bitter, so afraid – I like it when they're afraid." He sighs, and lifts his bloody hand to lick another knuckle clean. "I'll admit, though, it doesn't taste as good as your dreams do."

"You said you wanted to protect me, to help me. If you help me, doesn't that mean you go hungry?"

Will's eyes flash. His expression is strangely vulnerable – not for the question, perhaps, but for the implication. "It doesn't have to be fear," he murmurs. "Not even _your_ fear. Dreams are dreams – it's just the emotion that flavors them." He smiles. "Surely you can understand that."

Hannibal nods, smiling. He sighs when, once again, he tries to move his arms, but finds he can't. "Why can't I move?" he murmurs.

Will hums, and tilts his head. "I wasn't sure what you'd do if you saw me," he admits, somewhat sheepishly. "I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

Understandable. Hannibal isn't certain what he might have done, had he the use of his arms and legs. But, as he thinks that, his fingers twitch, and he lifts a hand, gently thumbing over the corner of Will's mouth. Will smiles, and turns, fitting his cheek against Hannibal's curled knuckles with another soft, happy purr.

"I'm only sorry I don't remember you," Hannibal confesses, for he thinks much could have been different, had he known about Will all along. Those terrible 'What If's don't seem so terrible knowing he has such a powerful creature in his corner.

Will merely smiles at him, serene and sweet. "It's the nature of the beast, I'm afraid," he sighs. "Children so often don't remember what they were afraid of, if they learn to overcome it. But I'm here now." His expression changes, grows fierce and fond, and he grips Hannibal's hand with both his own and holds it to his chest. "I'm here and I'm going to take care of you. I'll teach you how to fight dragons again."

"And you'll stay, after?" Hannibal asks, for Will said that once he was strong enough in his youth, Will left him. He doesn't want this creature to look so sad again.

Will smiles, and nods.

"Will I remember this dream?"

Will's smile widens, showing his sharp teeth again. "Yes," he says, with a happy little trill. "I'm well-fed, thanks to you. You can keep this dream." His head tilts. "You can keep any dream you want."

Hannibal turns his hand, curiously testing Will's pulse, finds it steady and human within his chest. Will is warm, the weight of him solid and, despite everything, thoroughly real. Hannibal would believe this wasn't a dream at all if he hadn't been told otherwise.

"I'll keep you well-fed," he promises.

Will's chest rumbles with another soft, happy sound, and he lets go of Hannibal's hand and leans forward, bracing himself on his chest. "There are other ways to feed me," he murmurs, his lashes lowering so only a slip of his golden-blue eye is visible. Hannibal shivers at the sight of Will's sharp teeth – human, for now, but there's something about him that's decidedly other, that might allow him to blend in with shadows and smoke-laced air, but here, in the brightness of Hannibal's mind, he appears _almost_ human. Almost, but not quite.

Will cups Hannibal's head, threading his long, clawed fingers through Hannibal's hair, and lifts him to a sitting position, sliding back so he's perched on Hannibal's thighs instead of his stomach. He settles with another quiet noise, tilts his head and nuzzles Hannibal's pulse, which has begun to tic upwards.

Will's hands slide down, settle at his shoulders, and grip tight. "I missed you so much, baby," he sighs, and opens his mouth just a shade too wide to be a normal man, mouthing wet and warm over Hannibal's neck. "You're all big and strong now."

The words cause a tremor to run down Hannibal's spine, and he grips Will's hips tightly, unsure where else to grab. Will's wild hair is a tempting handhold, and he rubs one palm, flat, fingers spread, up Will's back, into his hair. His fingers curl, admiring the warmth and thickness of it, and Will's entire body rolls, pressing closer to him.

"I'm relatively certain monsters under the bed don't do this," Hannibal says, as Will purrs and clings to him, kisses wide and wet along his pulse.

Will laughs. "You're right – this is all you." He pulls back and cups Hannibal's face, letting their eyes meet. "All me, if you want it." His brow arches, his expression smug and sly, dimples cut deep into his cheeks as he smiles wide enough to show all his teeth. "Everyone wins with good dreams."

Hannibal smiles, tugging gently at Will's hair just to watch how his lashes flutter, his jaw goes slack but for a moment, his shoulders tense and drop, showing more of his neck. Despite knowing Will is not human, and this is all in his head, he would be a fool to say Will is not beautiful, perfect in the imperfections on his face – no stone-like sculpture, no unmoving and unfeeling line of paint upon a canvas. Will is warm, and alive, and his breathing turns harsh when Hannibal cups his nape and squeezes, a shiver running down his spine that ends in a subtle but undeniably desperate arch of his body against Hannibal's.

"Show me," Hannibal whispers.

Will's eyes open wide, and he smiles, and leans in. Their foreheads touch, their noses brush, and then Will's lips graze his, just a taste, just a tease. His lips are warm and soft, slightly chapped, and taste like iron. There's blood in his teeth and Hannibal growls, tightens his grip until Will gasps, and licks between them for a better taste. He knows what the carcass he left for Will tasted like, from the meal he prepared for himself, so his brain is happy to supply a rich, iron-salt flavor to Will's mouth.

Will collapses against him with a sweet, needy moan, clutching at Hannibal's shoulders as Hannibal kisses him. His nails drag, sharp enough that Hannibal feels pain even through his clothes, and he shivers and growls against Will's mouth, tugs on his hair and slides his other hand down Will's back, to where his spine dips. He can feel Will's body quivering against him, feel the flex of each warm muscle as it spasms beneath his touch, as if this is the first time Will has ever been touched. Perhaps it is – Hannibal would like to think Will has never appeared to anyone else like this.

Hannibal hauls him closer, drags his heels up the bed and pushes Will harder against his lap. A series of throaty, rasping sounds fall from Will's pink mouth, his eyes black now, his lip curling back in a silent snarl when Hannibal parts for air.

He grips Hannibal's chin and says, "You don't need to breathe in a dream."

And Hannibal supposes that's true.

Still, he is panting, his heart racing in his chest as Will rolls against him, throws his head back to bare the long, pale arch of his throat, and how could Hannibal refuse such a lovely invitation? He bites over Will's pulse, imagines that the bed is slightly wider than it is, and rolls Will onto his back, sinking between Will's thighs as he ruts his thickening erection against Will's warmth.

He imagines Will bare for him, and it is suddenly so. Will's body bears scars Hannibal would not have given him – one, a long line along his belly. Another in his shoulder, a third to the left of his abdomen. Hannibal pulls back, head tilted, and presses his hand against the largest scar that sits like a macabre smile on Will's stomach.

Will grins up at him. "Fighting dragons is a dangerous business," he says with a laugh.

"You were injured?" Hannibal asks.

Will nods. "You are capable of imagining terrible things, baby," he says. "I can't die in your dreams, but…" He trails off with a shrug, and Hannibal swallows, and leans down to brush his lips over the edge of the scar.

"Forgive me," he murmurs.

Will laughs again, tilting his head back, his hands flattening through Hannibal's hair as he lets out an amused hum. "There's nothing to forgive," he says, and Hannibal can feel the vibration of his voice beneath his lips. He kisses Will's stomach again, flattens his hands on Will's flanks, and drags his nose up to Will's heart, breathing in deeply. Ah, there it is, that mossy-molasses scent, undeniably sweet and just on the verge of grapes turning into wine.

Will lifts his head and smiles at him, lashes low, and looks as pleased as a wildcat curled up in the sun. He pulls Hannibal to him again, kisses him passionate and long. Hannibal licks the blood from his mouth, kisses the wound on his shoulder, measures the tremble and flex of Will's ribs beneath his hands. He imagines himself bare as well, and it is so. He imagines Will slick, and open, and it is so.

Will grins at him, red on the edges of his gums. "You're a natural," he purrs, and bends his legs, curls his body in open, blatant invitation. He grips Hannibal's waist with his thighs and moans when Hannibal kisses his neck, parts his jaws wide and sinks his teeth in, as he slides his hands to Will's lower back, cups and lifts him. He imagines that it's easy to push into Will, and it is so.

Heat, slick and tight, envelops him, better certainly than any sexual dream Hannibal has had before, for he knows this is real. Will is real, beneath him, clawing at his back hard enough to raise red, stinging lines. His sweet, satisfied moan is real, the way his inner muscles clamp and clench, drawing Hannibal in, is real. The taste of blood on his teeth is so real it's like Hannibal ate the man himself, raw.

The bed creaks beneath them with every thrust, Will wrapped tight around him in the muted light, his eyes shining a lovely, molten gold as he gasps, gazing up at Hannibal like Hannibal is the one who put the stars in the sky. He cradles Hannibal's nape and lifts his head to kiss him, and Hannibal fists a hand in his hair, his other hand pressing behind one of Will's knees to fold him, his legs stretching out so he can get more force behind his thrusts.

Will shivers, sighs against his mouth, smiles up at him as Hannibal braces their foreheads together. "That's it, baby," he purrs, petting down Hannibal's back. Hannibal groans, closes his eyes for just a moment, because he can't bear to stop looking at Will. He knows he will not see him until he goes to sleep again. " _Fuck_ , yeah, just like that."

Will's claws flex in his lower back, urging him on, deeper. Will is so warm, so wet, the sheets are growing slick with him. Hannibal's sweat stings at the cuts on his back, blinds him as he growls and fucks in, gripping Will's hair fiercely and tilting him back so he can mark his throat. He wants to mark Will – for real, this time, not some by-product of his childhood dreams, but like this. As a man, taking Will as men take what is theirs.

Will arches beneath him, digs his heels high into Hannibal's back, and throws his head back with another gasp, eyes brightening in their richness, and then abruptly darkening to a deep gold, slipping shut as he tenses up and goes still. His lips part, revealing teeth that are sharp and pointed, bows up and bites down savagely on Hannibal's neck as he comes with a soft shriek. Blood arcs out from Hannibal's neck, staining their chests as Will spills between their bodies.

The sharp stab of pain is enough that Hannibal is, suddenly, thrust into the land of the living. He convulses, curling up on his side, one hand flying to his neck, yet finding no wound there, the other wrapping around his cock, which is still so hard it hurts. It takes only a touch for him to finish, groaning loudly into his thin pillow as he trembles and coats the inside of his underwear. His pulse is racing heavily, a thoroughbred mid-sprint with its legs suddenly snapping, and so he is left careening through the downfall, his hands seeking soft hair and warm flesh, his body suddenly so bereft of Will's claws, his teeth, the pressure of his thighs.

He finishes with a grunt, wincing at the warm, clinging tackiness that immediately begins to dry on his skin. He opens his eyes to find the room still-dark, only a soft blue glow from Reynolds' computer lighting the space, but he's certain the man had been monitoring him and would have noted his sudden surge of activity.

He sighs, and does his best to wipe his hand clean, tentatively touching his neck. There is no real wound, there, he's not gushing blood as he did in his dream – and it dawns on him that he _can_ remember it. He hasn't remembered a dream in so long, the fact that he can almost surprises him, despite Will promising that he would.

Still, it is a cold and stark thing, to be so suddenly thrust into reality with nothing but discomfort and memory to keep him warm. His fingers curl, aching for Will. He wants to hear the creature's heart beating beneath his cheek, wants to run his fingers through Will's thick, lovely hair. Wants to see where else he has scars.

There is a moment of silence as he tries to steady his breathing, and then a mechanical buzz, and Reynolds' voice, overly-polite over the speaker system; "It's perfectly natural," he says kindly, and Hannibal growls to himself. He is far past the point of having wet dreams, after all – and it had been real. He knows it as deeply as he knows the taste of blood. "It's currently just past six in the morning. Would you like to try going back to sleep?"

Oh, Hannibal could not possibly sleep now. He feels well-rested, almost giddy with relief, as if he held a poison in his bones and all it took was one sharp _crack_ for it to release, for him to be rid of it. Will is with him, after all, and he will fight dragons with Hannibal whenever he goes to sleep.

He sighs, sitting up, grimacing again at the reminder of just how good a dream it had been, and looks to the observation window to see Reynolds smiling at him, thin and polite and looking almost fake in the glow of his computer. "I don't think I'll be able to," he replies, as calmly as he can.

"Alright. I'll be right in to remove the sensors," Reynolds replies, and stands, turning on the light in the observation room, and then the light in Hannibal's room brightens. He winces, and rubs his clean hand over his face as the door opens, and Reynolds comes inside. He has gloves on his hands and Hannibal remains still as he removes the sensors from his chest and temples. He doesn't comment on the stain, or the smell, and Hannibal is grateful for that. "The next room over is a bathroom, and contains a shower. Feel free to make use of it, and you can get dressed, and I'll meet you in the main office to discuss preliminary findings."

Hannibal nods, sighing as Reynolds turns the monitor off, and leaves the room. Truthfully he's not very interested in his results, for he knows now that he wasn't sleepwalking, wasn't even restless for the sake of restlessness. He must, simply, learn to fight dragons again.

Nevertheless, he clambers out of the bed and gathers his things, and goes to the next room, stripping himself bare of his soiled clothing and stepping into the shower once he has retrieved his shampoo and body wash. He cleans himself thoroughly, his hands still warm from Will's flesh, his body still aching for the weight of him across his thighs, and he brushes his teeth and wets his hair from his face, and dresses in the change of clothes he brought, tucking everything back neatly into his overnight bag.

He shoulders the bag and heads to the main office, finding the door open and Reynolds sitting in a cheap-looking rolling chair in front of another computer. He turns, and smiles at Hannibal, gesturing for him to have a seat.

"I just have a few questions for the sake of the study, if you don't mind," he says, and Hannibal nods. He wants to go home – he wants to hunt for Will, to provide him a meal to sate the hunger he didn't satisfy by eating Hannibal's dreams. He wants to make room for Will in his home, and let Will know he is welcome there, although he knows sleep will elude him for some time. He's energetic, thrumming with it; truthfully he hasn't felt this well-rested in weeks.

Reynolds nods to him again, and turns back to his computer, peering down his nose at the first question. "Do you feel better rested this morning than you normally do?" he asks.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, and hopes for the man's sake that he doesn't correlate that with Hannibal's unfortunately public excitement. Reynolds is either very smart or very professional, for he merely checks off the box and says nothing more on the matter.

"Did you feel, during your sleep, any of your normal symptoms? Restless limbs, interrupted REM, anything like that?"

"No," Hannibal replies with a shake of his head. "I daresay it's the best night of sleep I've had in a while."

Reynolds smiles at him. "That's good," he replies. "Well, that may explain your results, then – I didn't see anything hinting at an abnormal sleep pattern. In fact, your brain activity and physical responses are almost textbook for a healthy male your age." He sighs. "As a result I'm unable to diagnose the cause. If you're willing, you might return for another night so that we can see if this was just an anomaly."

"If the problem persists, I certainly will," Hannibal says with a gracious nod. He is restless, feels almost high on the promise of Will returning to him, of them both being home in Hannibal's bed when night falls again. "I want to thank you for your time – I'm only sorry it might not prove useful for your study."

"Control groups are never not useful," Reynolds replies with a laugh. He stands, and Hannibal does as well, and they shake hands as Hannibal is herded towards the front desk. "Please come back to see us if you continue to have any bad nights. Good luck, Doctor Lecter."

"Thank you," Hannibal murmurs, and steps outside. The day is still young, dawn not yet touching the horizon. The man who had been in the waiting room with him the night before is outside, looking thoroughly exhausted, jittery, his trembling fingers fidgeting with a lighter as he tries to light a cigarette.

He looks at Hannibal with something like wariness. Blinks once, twice, and scurries away as though Hannibal emerged with a demon at his back. Hannibal's head tilts, and he watches him go, but discards him before the thought of a hunt can truly form. He would never do himself or Will the disservice of feeding him a smoker.


	3. Chapter 3

When he returns home, he finds himself for the first time at a loss of what to do. He wants to go back to sleep, he wants to see Will again, to know that it was not simply a realistic fever dream that conjured the creature in his head, but he's well-rested and alert, and despite his ability to will himself to sleep most nights, he doesn't relish the idea of lying in bed and trying to, futilely, and risk not being able to sleep later.

He has patients today, regardless, and cannot simply while away the hours in bed. He goes down to the basement to see that Will, as before, stripped the carcass clean until it is merely bleach-white bone, and Will left another note for him in his plastic suit, thanking him for the meal. It's reassuring to see his black, scrawling writing, letting Hannibal know that, yes, Will is real. He's as real as everything else in Hannibal's life.

He fixes himself a hearty breakfast, taking and using the organ meat he was going to eat before Will gifted him a heart, and gorges himself, rather hungrier than usual. He washes his hands, does the dishes, and dresses for his first appointment of the day.

The first one is Franklyn, who ruffles Hannibal's feathers at the best of times, because he is so woefully _earnest,_ and he _notices_ things. He's actually remarkably intuitive, which Hannibal finds rare in his patients, but seems rather blind when it comes to what, exactly, their relationship is – that is, one of a doctor and a patient. They are not friends; Hannibal would never deign to associate with Franklyn within his social circle, finding the man altogether too puppy-like, too eager to please, too insecure in his own skin to suit Hannibal's sensibilities.

He appreciates men – and monsters – who are like Will. Who know exactly who they are and what they want, and are not afraid to take it.

"Doctor Lecter, so good to see you!" Franklyn chirps, shifting his weight and petting down his tie. He's wearing a canary yellow suit today, an eyesore even to Hannibal's sense of fashion. He wants Hannibal to comment on it, he can tell. "You're looking much better rested than when last we spoke."

Hannibal gives him a cordial smile, and inclines his head in acknowledgement. The reminder brings with it memories of Will, sweet and warm and heavy in his arms. Hannibal will be the first to admit he is prone to flights of infatuation bordering on insensible, can be moved to tears of passion with music and stare at a single painting for hours on end, admiring the brushstrokes and play of color, but Will, well, he has encased Hannibal's head in warm, welcome shadow. His heat still stings Hannibal's palms, makes his fingers curl. His neck aches from the echo of Will's teeth.

He must murmur some meaningless platitude or acknowledgement, for Franklyn hums as though in agreement. "I've been sleeping better too. I think it's the change in weather – I like it when it's cold."

Hannibal has no preference, really, but right now he aches for dragon fire, for darkness. He wants _Will_. How often had he mourned the few hours in a day, and now he wants to race through them, and back to his dreams.

"Have you been using those relaxation exercises I suggested to you?" he forces himself to ask, makes himself appear interested in Franklyn's inner demons. Absently, he knows he should really give serious thought to referring Franklyn, for the man is definitely in need of therapy, or at least someone to talk to, but the longer this goes on and the more attached Franklyn gets to him, the less effective therapy with Hannibal will become. And he's so lackluster – which isn't his fault. It's not his fault Hannibal becomes so easily bored by the sheep, that their bleating grates on him so fiercely. Franklyn is not the kind of person Hannibal can play with, and as a result, he would rather give him away.

"Oh, yes," Franklyn says brightly, nodding and straightening in his seat again, chest puffing out like a proud turkey. "They've really helped a lot. I made a new friend – Tobias – he's a lot like you. Cultured, musical." Hannibal's head tilts. "He's really interesting."

"I'm glad you're making friends, Franklyn," Hannibal says kindly. "A wide social circle can be just as good as having a few close friends; it just depends on the person." His own words sound so plastic to his ears, the same kind of drivel one might find in a self-help book that has the picture of an ocean on the cover and was written by a single mother with nothing better to do than have her wild weekend in Tuscany and call it a psychiatric reset. His lips twitches, and he turns it into a smile at the last moment. "I think you are the former kind of person."

"I like being around people," Franklyn says in agreement. Hannibal thinks he would willingly jump off a bridge if Hannibal suggested it. Less a sheep, more a lemming. Poor Franklyn – if Tobias is even a little like Hannibal, he will tire of him quickly.

Franklyn blinks at him, eyes wide and earnest, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth. "Do you have a lot of friends, Hannibal?" he asks. Hannibal presses his lips together, lifts his chin. "I just mean, you come here and listen to people complain at you all day. Who listens to your complaints?"

Hannibal smiles. "I make do," he replies, stern enough to warn Franklyn against prying further. "These sessions are about you, Franklyn, not me."

"It makes me sad that I have to pay to see you," Franklyn murmurs, soft and high-pitched and altogether childlike. In his mind palace, in a room cloaked in shadow and memory, something shifts, blinks with golden eyes, and laughs loudly. It sounds like Will. "I consider you my friend."

"I'm glad you trust and like me so much, Franklyn, but I would like to remind you that we are, in no uncertain terms, doctor and patient. If you want to change that…"

"No, no!" Franklyn says, hands fluttering in a frantic gesture of denial, and he shakes his head. "No, not at all. I still want to see you, of course." He flushes, and looks guilty, as if he has caused some great offense. Good.

The shadow in Hannibal's mind grins, and purrs quietly, curling up on itself and going back to sleep. It has always been there, he thinks, lingering in the alcoves and hallways Hannibal kept sealed off, but now it has opened, and within it, Will prowls.

Hannibal sits back, and folds one leg over the other. "I'm glad you're making friends, Franklyn," he murmurs, offers a kind smile that Franklyn eagerly returns. "Tell me about Tobias."

"Well, like I said, he's really into music. He owns a string shop in Baltimore…"

Franklyn leaves, and then it's Missus Monroe, who fills her hour with talking about her daughter, how she has recently moved back into the area and is getting into the wrong kinds of trouble. Then Mister Germaine, a man that Hannibal isn't sure is in real need of therapy, but rather wants a place where he can come and sit and ramble about whatever thought pops into his head. He's actually one of Hannibal's favorite patients, usually, and even more so because it's an hour that passes quickly, one more step towards the time when Hannibal can go home and go to sleep.

He has a small lull between his patients in the morning and the afternoon, and contemplates taking a nap to try and see Will again, when Alana calls.

"Good afternoon," he greets warmly.

"Afternoon," she replies, and Hannibal can tell she's smiling. "I just wanted to call and check up on you, ask how the sleep study went, if you're willing to share." He knows it's nothing more than professional curiosity, and doesn't think Reynolds would have told her about Hannibal's unfortunate incident that morning.

"In terms of diagnosing my sleeping issues, it was remarkably enlightening," Hannibal tells her, putting his phone on speaker and setting it down while he busies himself with writing up his notes on Franklyn, Monroe, and Germaine. "Regarding any usefulness to the actual study, I don't think there is anything worthy of note."

"Sometimes that happens," Alana says with a hum. "But you got a diagnosis?"

"Yes." Hannibal doesn't say more, and he knows she won't pry. "I believe I will be able to rectify the issue soon enough and be back to my normal self in no time."

"I'm glad to hear it," she says warmly, and laughs. "I'm sorry, I know it's not really funny, but it's kind of amusing to me to hear of someone like you having trouble sleeping." Hannibal regards his phone with a raised brow. "You don't seem like the kind of person to be bothered by anything; your psyche must be pulling some harsh stuff to keep you up at night."

"You're not incorrect," Hannibal says. "Thankfully, now that I know the cause, I can correct it."

"That's the spirit!" Alana replies. "And if you still wanted to learn more about sleep-related therapies or anything like that, my door's always open." He hears a voice buzzing in over an intercom, and she lets out a soft sigh. "I have to go. I just wanted to check in, sorry if I disturbed you."

"Nonsense, Alana, you're always welcome to reach out to me," Hannibal replies. "Have a good rest of your day."

"Bye!" she says, and hangs up, and Hannibal sighs, his fingers curling as his phone goes black, and he looks down at the newest page in Franklyn's book, still empty. If he were a less professional man, he would cancel his afternoon appointments and go home – and for a long, long moment, he contemplates doing just that.

He doesn't, but the temptation is there all the same.

Finally, good Lord in Heaven, _finally_ , it's time to usher out his final patient of the day and close down the office. Once he gets home, he pours himself a large glass of wine, and eats lightly, hoping that the increased ratio of alcohol to lack of food will make him tired sooner than normal.

He had taken his patient notes home with him, for he is not entirely without professionalism, and sits down at the desk in his study once the plates are cleared away, and his wine glass has been refilled. He finishes up his notes on Missus Fischer, Madame Lane, and young Mister Baughman.

Then, when he is finished with those, he finishes his glass of wine and switches to port, nursing it as he retrieves his tablet from his bedside table and returns to his study – only special occasions or sickness call for food and drink in bed – and pulls up a search for anything related to monsters under the bed.

The first few links are to short stories for sale, collections of poems, and rather interesting art that paints monsters under the bed from anything to a single set of glowing eyes, to clawed and snarling beasts pouring from a mess of darkness, a frightened child huddled under their blankets to try and hide away. He frowns, sighing through his nose, for while he's not surprised by the results, he cannot possibly reconcile them with Will.

Perhaps it is different, when the monster under your bed is your friend.

He recalls the names Will had given himself – 'Incubus', and 'Baku'. A memory flickers, colored red and gold as his aunt Murasaki used to wear so often. The Japanese dream-eater. He's more familiar with the legends of the incubus, and can't help think that, given how their last meeting went, it's not entirely inaccurate, though he would be wise not to call Will a demon to his face.

There is a link that catches his eye – a story called 'A girl and her monster'. He clicks on it, and it opens to a plain-text website with the story, depicting an otherworldly entity named Cary'n, who has been tasked with the job of scaring a young girl, who so far has proven resistant to previous monsters. He reads on, curious, as Cary'n meets the girl, Mirabelle, and realizes that the reason she is not afraid of the monsters under her bed is because she is living with a far more aggressive monster, in the form of her abusive father.

He reads as Cary'n bonds with the girl, and grows attached to her, and eventually helps her put the fear of God into her father and kills him. He smiles as he reads the ending, when Cary'n decides to stay with Mirabelle, to guide and guard her as she grows up.

There are several related links, all depicting the same kind of story. He researches the Baku, anything related to dream-eating, and finds a wide array of stories and legends. The deeper he delves, the more he finds accounts and stories that paint the creature as something beneficial to those they haunt, devouring bad dreams and nightmares so that their bonded person does not suffer through them.

It fits what Will has told him, and he has no doubt in his mind that, whatever the true name of whatever Will is, he should not be afraid. He's not afraid – Will wants to help him fight dragons. He cleans up after Hannibal's messes though Hannibal needs no help. Will loves him, he feels that knowledge deep in his chest.

He sighs, and finishes his port, turning off the tablet and setting it to one side. The night is still relatively young, certainly earlier than Hannibal normally goes to sleep, but he's lax with wine and good food, and thinks he could manage it.

He goes to bed, and removes his clothes of the day, placing his shoes neatly by his closet. His suit jacket returns to the closet, along with the matching suit pants, and he unbuttons his shirt and pushes it into the hamper, leaving him in only his underwear and socks. He goes back to his drawers and pulls out a large t-shirt and lounge pants, putting those on, and takes off his socks, balling them up and putting them in the hamper atop his shirt. Since he did not hunt, he has no need for an additional shower, and so merely contents himself with brushing his teeth and washing his face, combing the product from his hair, and then he goes to bed.

The darkness beneath his bed seems deeper than normal, and he smiles, and doesn't fight the strange urge to crouch down and peer beneath it. Will had said the more he eats, the easier it is to manifest himself. There is no new stain, but there is also no Will, but Hannibal is not disappointed. He knows Will shall appear once he's asleep.

He climbs into bed and settles with a sigh, on his back, his arms flat on either side of him, and closes his eyes.

He awakes in the foyer of what appears to be a grand castle, reminiscent of his childhood home, but far more opulent, wreathed in gold and heavy tapestries that flutter in a heavy breeze. He can hear the wind beating against the stone from the outside, curling around the open windows, brushing along his face like the touch of a hand.

A presence stirs behind him, and Hannibal smiles when he feels a so-gentle touch of lips to his shoulder. "Hey, baby," Will murmurs, and Hannibal turns, meeting Will's eyes. Will is just a little shorter than him, his shoulders broad and muscled, his hands sliding warm and spreading wide into place on Hannibal's chest. His eyes are the bright mixed blue of jade beneath the surface of the ocean, flecked with gold, and his smile is warm and human, just those slightly too sharp canines denoting him as anything other than a mortal man.

Will smiles at him, and reaches up to gently cup Hannibal's jaw. His claws feel sharp against his skin, but come with no threat. Hannibal sighs, and looks around, finding that, yes, these halls bear a stark resemblance to those he navigated through as a child, but there are undeniable influences from his years in Italy, in France, even in Baltimore. The castle holds a timelessness to it that weighs upon him as though each passing second is another grain of sand, sinking onto his shoulders, through him, and into the floor.

"What is this place?" he asks, though he's sure he already knows.

Will follows his gaze, eyeing the vaulted ceilings, the open windows, the thick-hanging curtains that do nothing to block out the silvery light of the moon. Every place is filled with golden candlelight though Hannibal sees nothing to give it a light source.

"I don't know," Will replies, and Hannibal blinks at him, frowning. "This is your mind, Hannibal – your memories, all mashed together throughout the years." His head tilts. "It has changed even since I was last here, just as the memories change, and are added to."

Hannibal presses his lips together. "There are places in my mind too dark for me to dare venture into," he says. "Holes, in the floor, where I fear to tread."

"I'll protect you," Will promises, and his hand drops, fingers lacing through Hannibal's own. Hannibal swallows, and begins to walk with no real direction in mind. The castle has an obvious path, a wide-stretched hall tiled with black and white crisscross, sconces on the wall holding light though there is no flame or bulb to make them shine so. There is gold, and ivory, and the pervasive scent of molasses.

Will follows him, on his right and a half-step behind, his thumb pressing gently against Hannibal's palm. Hannibal feels it as wholly and as real as if this was an experience for his waking brain. The air is utterly silent, unmoving save for the occasional flutter of curtains, the deep and faint wail of wind outside.

"It sounds like quite a storm," he murmurs.

Will nods. "Storms can be symbolic of great change and upheaval," he replies.

Hannibal hums – an absent sound. "What does this dream taste like?"

Will smiles at him. "Anticipation," he says, and squeezes Hannibal's hand. They pass by a set of large wooden doors, all barred shut and the steel braces rusted so that Hannibal is not sure he could break them through force alone. He doesn't try, merely treks on. "It's hard for dragons to fly in storms – that begs the question, are you keeping them out, or keeping them in?"

"Have I dreamed of this before?" Hannibal asks.

Will lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "When you eat a man, do you absorb his memories, his thoughts, his feelings?" He pauses, and stops Hannibal in place, turns him and puts his hands on Hannibal's shoulders. "You must stop lingering in the past," he says insistently, his eyes bright and earnest. "Do not think on what has happened. When men are looking behind, they so often do not see what's coming."

"I don't know what's coming either way," Hannibal says.

Will sighs, and swallows harshly. "Don't be afraid," he murmurs, his hands sliding down Hannibal's shoulders, his biceps, to curl around his wrists. His eyes close, his lips part, showing his teeth, his tongue. His canines look sharper than they did before. "I can taste your fear – it is bitter, like lemon, sour like underripe berries."

He opens his eyes, and the expression on his face is not quite one of a beggar, but close to it. He steps closer, leans in until their noses brush, and takes a deep inhale. His nostrils flare, his eyes brightening from sea-glass to stained glass, oceans and cloudless summer skies.

"Please don't be afraid," he says again, and touches Hannibal's cheek, his fingertips warm and gentle. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Hannibal wants to say he can't help how he feels – fear is one of the most primal emotions known to man, and though he is far elevated beyond normal men in most ways, this sense of dread, of inevitable doom, feels childlike and unevolved. He knew fear, as a child, and now, surrounded by this place that feels so much like a place he's been in before, weighted with time and truth and circumstance he has no power to change, he feels heavy with it.

Will kisses him, just a single brush of his chapped lips against Hannibal's, and when he pulls away, the door behind him abruptly shudders, buckles. The holdings on the bar blocking the door shiver and tremble, the iron rusting to nothingness and falling in a pile of red dust, and the doors swing open.

Will turns, and meets the void of black that stares back at them with a ready, steely expression. He takes Hannibal's hand, and lifts his eyes.

"Shall we?"

Hannibal nods, and enters the room, which brightens once he is inside it, revealing a place much like the room he slept in at the orphanage. The walls are damp and glisten with recent rain, there are steel, barren bunkbeds lining one wall, all of them filled with the dense, snoring rise of young boys trying to get some rest beneath threadbare and bug-ridden blankets. They do not stir as he and Will pass through them, and Hannibal comes to a stop at the second to last bunk, which he called his own when he stayed in the orphanage.

He sees a version of himself, young and string-like, barely a child and definitely yet to become a man. Sweat plasters his hair, which was black back then, to his face, his skin pale and clammy with sweat.

There is a monster in his bed, holding him, that looks like Will. That version of Will does not look at them, doesn't pull his attention away from his charge. He is not quite a man either, more a suggestion of one, a shadow suspended on dust that reaches to the past version of Hannibal, soothes him with soft rumbles and gentle words.

"You didn't know enough English for me to talk to you properly, back then," Will murmurs. He sounds terribly sad, his voice low and soft and aching. They watch, as the shadow opens his mouth wide and settles it over Hannibal's mouth, which is frozen in a muted cry of terror, their lips an inch apart. Watches as the shadow's eyes glow golden, and from Hannibal's mouth comes a single thread of tar-like essence, into that of the monster. It eats the thread, and Hannibal's younger self rears up, blind and reaching, screaming loud enough to wake the other boys.

Hannibal swallows, as they begin to grunt and curse at him in Russian, scolding him for waking them. He has seen enough. "I'd like to leave," he says, and Will nods, stepping to one side and allowing him to pass back through the rows of bunkbeds, and out the door.

It slams shut as Will leaves the room as well, and the bar that appears into place in front of it is shiny and new. Hannibal looks at the door for a long time, until Will's fingers curl between his own again. Hannibal breathes out. "What did my fear taste like, when I was younger?" he asks.

Will swallows, and looks like he doesn't want to answer. "Ash," he finally says.

"Ash?" Hannibal repeats.

Will nods.

Hannibal doesn't want to linger here, and so he moves on, not caring when another door buckles and opens for him. He is in the part of his life he does not care to revisit, and they reach the end of the hallway where, unlike the rest of the doors, there is a single opening like the entrance to the servant tunnels.

He ducks down, and shivers as he is suddenly so cold. The wind blows more strongly here, through the holes in the stone walls, too eroded and decayed to keep it out. He pulls his arms around himself and keeps walking, the light turning muted and grey as opposed to the golden, easily illuminated hallway they were just in.

Will follows in silence, merely holding his hand as Hannibal strolls through the halls of his memory. He hears, in the distance, music – his uncle playing for him on the harpsichord. Or perhaps it is his mother, when she wasn't too sickly, and would play for him and Mischa while they read books of poetry and Hannibal teased her for her petite stature.

He knows he is traveling farther back in time, to places he has long-since kept sealed.

The hallway ends with another door, this one standing open like it was waiting for him. He emerges into a warmly-lit room, a long ballroom-like place, with a single giant table nestled within it, so large it could easily seat forty. There are no chairs, but in each place sits a ghost-like person, pearlescent and transparent and shimmering like opal and diamond.

They are all sitting absolutely still, no movement except the natural ebbs and ripples of their essences, trapped forever in a ghost-like static. Hannibal goes to the head of the table, where there is no ghost, and stares down at the faces. Some of them he recognizes, like a quote from a book he hasn't read in years – others are the faces of victims he has taken. Others still are clearly mashed together, features and expressions he has taken note of over the years but do not belong to a single person he recognizes.

The curtains are red and heavy, obscuring any view of the outside. The wind no longer wails – it is utterly, utterly silent. Hannibal feels a strange urge to break it – to yell, or otherwise scream, to see if he can startle these ghosts back to the land of the living.

Will squeezes his hand, and meets his eyes when Hannibal turns to face him.

"Don't linger in the past," he whispers, and tugs on Hannibal's hand. Where he was made to lead, now he is content to follow, down the long, long line of the room, and through another door which stands askew on broken hinges. Another decrepit hallway greets him, and as they pass through it, he emerges into another room.

He freezes, and takes a step back, pulling Will to a halt.

"Not here," he says.

Will swallows, like he knows how Hannibal is feeling. Perhaps he does – perhaps he can taste it in the air. It is Mischa's bedroom, painted a soft teal, crowned and wreathed in gold. He sees the little dollhouse she used to play with, tucked neatly in the corner. He sees her closet, open and bursting to fullness with her dresses, her frocks, her dancing uniforms. Her shoes, askew around it like a halo.

Where her bed should have been, there is a giant, gaping hole, that yawns at him like a maw of a great beast.

"Her loss is what brought me to you," Will says. His eyes are dark, face etched with a deep pain, like being in this room is like being stabbed through the heart. He rubs his free hand over his mouth and meets Hannibal's eyes. "We can't go back, Hannibal – we have to keep moving."

Hannibal shakes his head, refusing to take another step. It is such an old, old wound, one he thought long-since scarred over and too wretched to pick at, and yet seeing her room in such stark clarity, perfectly-recalled, feels like a betrayal by his own brain. How dare he remember her room so well. How dare there be this huge imperfection where she once so peacefully slept.

How dare Will bring him here.

He closes his eyes, and turns away. "No," he says, and removes his hand from Will's. "I'm going to wake up now."

"Hannibal -."

Hannibal surges awake, breathless and covered in cold sweat. He throws himself from his bed with a growl, an absent glance at the clock telling him it's just past three in the morning. Some would call that the witching hour, where the borders of what is real and what is damned are at their thinnest.

He paces to his bathroom and turns on the light, wincing at the brightness, and looks at himself in the mirror. Clearly, forcibly interrupting his sleep has not done him any favors – his eyes appear bruised beneath, his skin far too pale. His hands shake, and he glares down at them, cursing them for their trembling.

He runs his hands through his hair, and turns when he hears a soft scratching. He looks, into the darkness of his room, the bathroom light illuminating all the way to his bed. He watches, as the sheets move, and from beneath the bed emerges a single, large hand. The claws on it are longer than in his dreams, digging deep furrows into the floor, hauling out the rest of the creature. Another hand emerges, digging in as well, then arms, then shoulders.

Finally, Will's head appears from beneath the bed. He does not look the same as he does in Hannibal's dreams – his hair is darker, and lies flat to his head as if he's been doused in water. His eyes burn a deep golden color, his jaws too large and teeth gaping at him as he gasps, wincing, and forces himself out from under Hannibal's bed.

He manages to get to his hands and knees, shaking as hard as Hannibal's hands, and lifts his head. The look he gives Hannibal is heavy, the weight of all that sand and memory and time, and he winces, lifting a clawed hand to his jaw and snapping his head to one side with a loud _crack_ , forcing his teeth to align, his countenance to shift to something more human.

Still, he cannot stand, and merely kneels there, gazing at Hannibal in plaintive silence.

Hannibal sighs through his nose, and turns away, looking down at his hands.

"Are you hungry?" he murmurs.

Will doesn't answer with words, but a formless, shapeless snarl. Hannibal straightens, and looks at him again, and Will's expression is so deeply sad, his brow furrowed, his lips moving to form soundless words. Still, he does not speak. Hannibal watches as he tries to rise, gets one foot on the floor, but cannot push himself upright and merely collapses to his knees again.

He reaches, with one shaking hard, fingers curled. Though he makes no sound, Will's mouth moves again, and Hannibal can read the word 'Please' there as easily as if he'd screamed it. It causes a sharp, sudden ache in his chest, and he goes to Will, crouching down and cupping his hand in both his own.

"Does it hurt?" he asks. Will winces, and nods again, bowing his head so his hair touches Hannibal's jaw, tickles at his neck. He smells so sweet, grapes turning to a rich red wine. He's warm to the touch and Hannibal sighs, cupping his nape and pressing his nose to Will's hair. "Are you hungry?" he asks again.

Will nods, and Hannibal embraces him, helping him to his feet. Will can barely stand, and clings to him, allowing Hannibal to lead him to the little seating area arranged at the foot of his bed. He places Will in one of the chairs, cups his face and kisses his forehead.

"Stay here," he says, and leaves swiftly, going down to his kitchen to retrieve more meat. Will has made it no secret he'll eat his meat raw, so Hannibal wastes no time cooking or preparing it, merely places it on a plate and pours himself a glass of wine, and returns to Will, setting the plate in front of him.

Will eats, pink juice smearing along his fingers and his jaw. He eats with no decorum, no finesse, merely unhinges his jaw to reveal his sharp teeth and swallows pieces of the meat whole. Hannibal sits as well, nursing his wine, and watches as with each bite, Will's appearance becomes more human. His teeth grow dull, his eyes soften to that familiar, pretty blue. His claws retract to the barely over-sharp ones he normally has.

When there is nothing left to consume, Will cracks his jaw again, hissing, and clears his throat. "Thank you," he says, hoarse and rasping, like he hasn't spoken in years and only just remembered how to. Hannibal nods, and sips at his wine.

Will lifts his eyes, and they are brimming with something close to regret. Guilty. "Do you…?" He trails off, lowers his gaze again, swallowing harshly. His shoulders roll and tense as though bracing for a blow. "Do you want me to leave you?"

"Is that in my power to command?" Hannibal replies, more curious than wanting to.

Will swallows again, looks away to the rumpled sheets of Hannibal's bed. "If you want me to leave, I will," he says quietly. "If you want me to stay, I'll stay."

"What do _you_ want, Will?" Hannibal asks.

"I want to help you," Will replies. He, still, will not look at Hannibal. His throat flexes as he sucks in a breath, lifts his eyes to the ceiling as though praying for mercy. His jaw is tight and tense, teeth grinding – though Hannibal has not smelled it before on Will, he thinks the sharpness of his scent is closer to pain than anything else; something overly-saccharine, like the rush of endorphins he often scented during his time as a surgeon.

Hannibal's head tilts. "Why?" he asks, and Will looks at him like this is a stupid question. "I mean, what compels you to choose who you choose, to help who you help? Surely I'm not the only person whose dreams you have eaten."

Will's expression clears somewhat, he wets his lips and licks, absently, at the juice on his fingers. His hands aren't shaking as badly anymore, and neither are Hannibal's. He takes another drink of wine.

"Do you remember hunger?" he murmurs, and Hannibal tilts his head. "True hunger – not necessarily for food, but for nourishment all the same. The kind of thing that drives men to invent, to explore, to conquer. The first time you did something and thought 'Yes, this is what I was meant to do'. Do you remember that?"

Hannibal nods. He has felt it a few, rare times. The first man he killed, he felt like that. The first time he composed a musical score, he felt like that. The first time he saw the paintings in the Uffizi Gallery and felt compelled to copy their likeness – yes, he knows that kind of hunger.

Will nods as well. "I felt it the first time I saw you," he says, and smiles. "The world I live in is dark, Hannibal, and there comes every now and again flecks of light, drawing my attention. Some of them I would follow, and when I was so hungry I could barely see, I would go to beacons of those lights. Places where it is easy to eat, where there is so much fear, and suffering. Easing even a little of that pain nourishes me like nothing else." He breathes in, lets it out slowly. "I came to the orphanage in which you slept, and saw you, and when I first entered your dreams, I was…struck dumb." Hannibal tilts his head. "There was so much raw, terrible beauty in your dreams. I felt as though I could stare at them, could devour them, for eternity – your imagination, your mind, I'd never seen anything like it, and haven't seen anything like it since."

He smiles, though it is weak. "I gorged myself on you, and then, when I was strong enough to show myself, you welcomed me with open arms. You called me your friend, you knew me in your dreams, even if you did not remember me when you were awake."

He reaches out, and touches his fingers to the backs of Hannibal's knuckles, cradling his wine glass stem. "I liked helping you. Even when you didn't need me anymore, I never stopped thinking about you. When you started having nightmares again, it was like a homing beacon had been lit in my chest." He presses his free hand to his heart, his eyes shining. "You are a lighthouse on a distant shore, calling me home. Where else would I go?"

Hannibal had always thought he was alone, the only person in the world who could feel things as suddenly and deeply as he does. And yet, hearing Will's words, it feels like he did the first time he killed; the first work of art, the first symphony. Will looks at him like a man who is falling in love anew with every passing moment.

He swallows harshly, his throat clicking, and rasps; "Do you love me, Will?"

"Yes," Will replies, openly, without hesitation. "I loved you then and I love you now." He lets out a small, near-sheepish laugh, and shakes his head. "You told me, once, before I left, that it is through awareness that we truly love. I was always aware of you, and I have always loved you."

"One cannot truly be aware of another being unless we love them," Hannibal says. "By that love, we see potential in our beloved." Will nods. "Through that love, we allow our beloved to see their potential. Expressing that love, our beloved's potential comes true."

"That's all I've ever wanted," Will breathes. "Potential is so easy to squander, such a valuable resource too often cast aside." He tucks his fingers beneath Hannibal's, around his wine glass, and cradles his wrist. "I want to protect you. I want you to break free of this terrible thing that haunts your past and your memories. I want to be your friend again."

"I'd argue we're past the point of friendliness," Hannibal replies, thinking of the last dream he shared with Will, the night before, where Will was so warm and open for him, a slick and wanting vessel for Hannibal's desire.

Will's eyes shine, wide and dark, glimmering like buried treasure in a sunken ship; gold and blue and black. "I will always be here for you," he vows, as intimate and sacred as words spoken at a wedding; "If you can't bear to visit your past, where your dragons lie, then I will be with you in the present." He sighs. "But the nightmares will still come. You cannot reason with a beast like that which haunts your dreams – you must destroy it, if you want to know peace."

Hannibal sighs. "Those holes in my mind are too deep and dark for me to venture," he says.

"No," Will says, and sits forward, cupping his other hand around Hannibal's and squeezing. "No, they aren't. You slayed dragons with me before, you can do it again." He presses his lips together, sighs through his nose. "Do you trust me?"

Hannibal nods. He must. He does.

Will nods as well. "Come back to bed," he whispers, and forces himself to stand. He appears unsteady on two legs, and Hannibal finishes his wine and allows Will to lead him to his bed. He settles beneath the sheets, and half-expects Will to crawl beneath his bed again, but is pleasantly surprised when Will slides into place beside him. They lie facing each other, and Will presses close, curling a hand around the back of Hannibal's neck.

"Close your eyes," he says, and Hannibal obeys, allowing Will's soft voice to lull him back towards dreamland. He feels Will's lips, gentle and warm, against his forehead, the bridge of his nose – finally, his lips, and he parts them to allow Will to lick between his teeth. "Follow me down."

He does.


	4. Chapter 4

When he opens his eyes again, he is back in the foyer of that castle, only now there is no opulence. This is his childhood home as he last saw it, bombed and raided, tapestries strewn along the ground, holes in the tiles and the ceiling. The storm rages on, water pouring down onto the floor and soaking the walls, and he can hear screaming.

Dread fills him, for he knows what happens next. This is when the men came to take him and his sister, when they slaughtered his mother and father in front of him and his sister clung to him so tightly.

Beneath his feet, a hole begins to form, in front of the large, wide stairs that lead to the upper floors. He steps back, and takes another step back, panting as he's covered in freezing rain and deafened by gunfire. The screams, abruptly, go silent.

Everything freezes in place, the giant chasm of the floor groaning at him, glinting sharply with the glow of fireflies.

He shudders, dread unlike anything he has felt for far too long and yet not long enough coiling in his chest. He knows he must go down. He knows what he will find there.

Will appears at his side, and takes his hand. "I'm here," he whispers, soft and soothing. He brushes Hannibal's wet hair from his face. "I'm right here."

Hannibal nods, steels himself, and swallows. He closes his eyes in a slow blink and tries to will the sight before him to change, as he so easily changed the reality of his dream in the sleep center. The blackness of the hole in the floor merges, ink seeping out to stain the floor black, and in front of him form a set of stairs like those of his basement.

He knows his basement. He knows his kitchen and his pantry and his home. There's nothing to be afraid of, there.

He goes down the stairs and shivers again, seeing his basement habitat surrounding him. The drawers in the far end where he keeps the bodies he doesn't have time to harvest. The large, flat metal table, gleaming dull and empty beneath the harsh lights. His plastic suit, hanging in the corner. The tub and drain for blood.

He knows this place. This place is his home.

Will leans in, and kisses his shoulder, and Hannibal feels it both in the dream and in reality. The stairs disappear from behind them, and Hannibal turns, swallowing when another set of stairs form, leading further down. They are stone and slick, worn by the passage of many feet and the unforgiving footfalls of time.

He goes down them, Will at his side, on his right and a half-step behind.

The stairs turn, and in front of him sit three large cells. At one point, this was a wine cellar, and cracked and broken barrels adorn one wall, splintered and ripped into thousands of wooden shards, red and black stains on the floor. There is a single point of light coming in from a window to the side of him, illuminating the floor and the cells.

The farthest cell has a man inside it. Hannibal's stomach clenches, for he knows this man. He recognizes him in the same way he might remember how viscerally he hated tomatoes in his youth. It claws at his innards, anger and revulsion coloring the air a faded, stained yellow. The wallpaper of Gilman's novelette and the woman has come out of the walls and is screaming at him.

He walks down the steps, and strides right up to the cell, peering in at the beaten man he had captured after killing all his compatriots, and thrown in this cell to rot. This is the man who gave him the bowl, the man who laughed when he ate it all and offered him seconds.

This man, who could have so easily put Hannibal in the soup instead. Who could have followed through when his friends made raucous jokes in their guttural language about the little orphan strays they had taken with them on a whim. This man who could have killed him, or killed his sister in front of him, who could have -.

The man lifts his head, and meets Hannibal's eyes. He grins, and starts to laugh.

"Hello, little boy!" he cries. He spoke German when Hannibal was young, before he knew the language. Now he speaks in English. "Back for seconds?"

Hannibal's upper lip twitches in a snarl. He can kill this man, in his dreams. He can kill him as many times, in as many ways as he likes. His fingers curl, and tighten around Will's. Will squeezes back.

He is not afraid.

He turns his head, sees the shine of his basement light from the top of the stairs. He has weapons, up there, tools and equipment to make this man scream. As he turns to head back up, to retrieve them, he hears a familiar and sudden _snap_ , like dozens of bones breaking at once, and he freezes.

The man has stopped laughing.

Time shivers, grinds to a halt, and tries to move again.

He looks back at the cell, to see the man not as a man anymore. His jaws have snapped apart, like Will's, and within his throat glows bright orange fire. The man's jaws crack again, open wide, and from within his human mouth emerges the tip of a great, scaly muzzle, sharp and pointed like that of a snake. The man's eyes bulge, and burst, running down his face and from the holes jut two great, ivory horns. The man shrieks, and collapses to his hands and knees, his back and clothes splitting in a sudden, heavy burst of blood, and from his back unfolds two wings. They are large, bat-like, and stretch up so high they touch the edges of the cell.

Will's eyes widen, and he steps back, like he had forgotten what a dragon looked like. The man's spine grows long, forms into a thick red tail with fierce-looking spikes. His claws sharpen and curl like that of an eagle, his neck grows, separating his skull from his shoulders, and the flesh of his face melts away, revealing large, black eyes, a wrinkled muzzle, teeth long enough to easily pierce a man entirely in two.

The dragon roars, and shakes its human flesh from its hide, stretching, knees snapping backwards and wrists thickening to support its weight. The dragon arches, so large now that the iron bars of the cell buckle from the press of its shoulders, and Hannibal flinches back as the iron gives, protruding sharply outwards, and starts to bend, and then break.

"Hannibal!" Will calls to him, but Hannibal cannot look away. He feels a tug on his hand, back towards the stairs, but he is frozen in place. Awe, terrible and terrified, fills him as the dragon breaks down the bars of the cage, forces itself free with a tremble of the foundations and a shower of rock dust. It roars again, and fixes Hannibal with an angry eye.

Then, it smiles, and parts its jaws, flames licking around its teeth. Hannibal is spurned into action, then, and runs for the stairs, Will right behind him as fire engulfs the cellar. They go up to the basement and Hannibal wills a door to shut behind them, buying them some time.

He can hear the beast bellowing, and looks to his tools again. Nothing here will kill a dragon.

The door shudders as the dragon beats against it, and he takes Will's hand and runs up to the foyer again, and then around the gaping hole, up the stairs to the upper levels. There were swords near his parents' bedroom, and he knows the soldiers who killed them didn't take any, for their time of war had no place for such things.

He goes to the room next to the one his parents used to sleep in. Inside are ornamental suits of armor, a pair of old muskets crisscrossed above the fireplace. He ignores them, and goes to the large display case at the other end of the room, where his father kept the swords.

Will appears at his side. He does not look afraid – rather, he smiles at Hannibal, and watches as he opens the case and takes out the largest sword. The edges are dull, but Hannibal focuses his mind and wills the blade to be as light as a feather and sharp enough to cut the color from a butterfly's wing.

He hands Will a second one, but Will shakes his head and waves him off. "I have no need for a weapon," he replies. Hannibal swallows, but cannot argue, for he hears a giant crack, like the very foundations of the manor are crumbling, and hears the dragon bellow again. His heart is racing, his hands shake.

"I don't know how to slay a dragon," he says. The beast had been so large, so absolute.

Will meets his gaze for a long moment, presses his lips together, and looks to the door. "This is your dream, Hannibal," he murmurs. "It goes how you want it to go."

"I don't want to be having this dream at all," Hannibal admits. He contemplates donning some of the armor, too, but knows too little about how to move within it, and can imagine all too easily what it would feel like it be slow-roasted inside a metal suit should he be caught in the flames.

Will makes a noise, as the foundations rock again, harsh enough to make Hannibal reach out and steady himself on the ornamental case. He reaches out and flattens a hand on Hannibal's shoulder.

"Do you trust me?"

Hannibal nods. He does.

Will smiles at him, and leans in for a single, chaste kiss. Then, he disappears, and Hannibal is left in the room, and he hears the dragon roar again.

He hefts his sword, and strides out of the room, seeing that the end of the hallway, the bottom of the stairs, is alight in flickering flames, that burn white-hot enough to melt the stone. He is sweating, frantically searching for Will, but cannot see him. Cannot even feel him in the part of his brain aware of reality. Maybe Will was too weak, maybe he cannot help Hannibal now.

Hannibal swallows, and walks to the top of the stairs. He sees the dragon below, the beast so huge it covers the space, eclipses the floor. It is the deep red of old blood, the membranes in his wings and the spikes of its tail and down its back a pale white color, to match its ivory horns.

It is a beautiful beast. It is terrifying.

The dragon's head snaps around, and its nostrils flare as it sees him. Its jaws part, fire coiling like a cobra about to strike in its gullet, and Hannibal darts out of the way just in time to miss the jet of flame it spits at him. The heat is blistering, sears his skin like a roast, and he cries out in pain, half-expecting to wake up.

He doesn't wake up. Maybe he can't.

The dragon laughs, and Hannibal hears the floors crumble and break under its weight, hears the bannisters crack and dissolve as it begins to ascend the stairs, searching for him. He waits, holding his breath and gripping his sword tightly in both hands, and peers out from behind his cover of the doorway to the weapons room.

The dragon sees him, and blows another jet of flame, and Hannibal runs across the hallway and takes cover in the frame of another door, wincing when he sees the paint and plaster on the walls melt as easily as butter in a hot skillet.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't remember what it's like to slay dragons in his mind, and without Will, he is without direction or instruction.

But…

_This is your dream_ , Will had said. Hannibal is in control.

He closes his eyes, tries to focus as he hears the dragon snarl, creeping closer. The floor bends and the delicate molding and decoration around the door crumbles under its weight, its hide abrading the sides of the hallway. It is too large to fly, up here. Too big to move around easily. It is a big, slow, dumb beast, not unlike a frightened sheep.

Hannibal knows how to deal with sheep.

He steels himself, trusting that if he were to die in his dream, he would wake up, and steps out into the hallway again. The dragon is mere feet from him, and snarls loudly, jaws parted and dripping black saliva onto the ground. Its throat glows orange, and it breathes another bright flume of fire.

Only, it doesn't. It is only air, as pleasant as an ocean breeze.

He hears Will laughing.

The dragon snarls again, roaring in anger, and lunges for him, jaws parted to try and swallow him whole. Hannibal steps to one side and swings his sword, the blade coming down over its muzzle, splitting scale down to the teeth. Blood spurts out of the beast, hot and black, and the dragon rears up, yanking the sword out of his hands, and shrieks with rage and pain.

Will's laugh comes again, and the sound of applause. "Good one, baby!"

Hannibal looks up as the dragon shakes its head vehemently, the sword coming loose and skating across the hallway, towards the very end. Hannibal runs for the sword, narrowly avoiding losing his leg for his trouble to a swipe of the dragon's teeth, and takes it up again. The dragon rears up, ready to breathe another jet of flame at him, and Hannibal grits his teeth, takes the sword in both hands, and rushes in, the tip of his sword finding the place where the orange shines brightest.

He imagines he is inserting a key into a lock, and it is so. The dragon's scales part easily for his sword and he pierces it at the heart. The dragon screams, convulsing, thrashing so harshly Hannibal loses his grip again, and he ducks out of the way, breathing hard, and watches as the dragon begins to shrink. For it is nothing – no more than a sheep, a worm, to crush under his foot.

The dragon whimpers, coiling up on itself. Hannibal imagines that the blade is poisoned, and it is so, and he watches with relish as black floods the veins of the beast, makes it writhe and moan in pain. He imagines the poison makes its horns and spines snap, and it is so – he can reach into the beast's mouth and snap its teeth, muzzle and neuter it. He makes its wings like paper, watches them buckle and shred to pieces on the tattered walls. Makes its hide no more firm than candlewax, and watches it melt from its body from the heat of its fire.

The dragon screams, writhes, twitching as it convulses in pain. The dragon's jaw opens, and Hannibal sees the face of the man, and he reaches out with a trembling hand.

"Please," the man begs. "Mercy."

Hannibal tilts his head, and takes the man's hand, hauling him out from the mouth of the beast as it shrivels, and withers. He smiles as the man sobs, thanking him, thanking him, and then Hannibal imagines that his ribcage is like warm water.

He sinks his hand into the man's chest, and reaches around his heart. He does not crush it, but cradles it as the man gasps, eyes wide and brimming with tears, mouth parted and gasping, clawing futilely at Hannibal's wrist.

Hannibal holds his heart, and gently, so gently, presses his thumb to the center of it. Then, once his grip is firm, he twists his hand and savagely wrenches it free, and flings the corpse backwards, to melt into the dragon fire, and turn black.

He looks down at the heart in his hand, finds it still beating, gushing fresh blood. His smile widens, and he lifts his head to see Will emerging over the spine of the beast, standing tall, and beaming down at Hannibal.

His voice, when he speaks, is warm with pride. "That was beautiful."

In answer, Hannibal lifts his heart to Will.

Will's eyes flash, and he comes down, cradling his hands around Hannibal's and gazing up at him in nothing short of awe. "Is this for me?" he whispers.

Hannibal nods, and Will smiles, and leans in, his eyes never leaving Hannibal's. He parts his jaws wide around the thick, slick atrium, and bites down, severing his mouthful easily. His lashes flutter, his eyes close, and he swallows it whole.

Hannibal removes his hands, letting Will hold the heart on his own, and cups his face, pulling Will into a kiss that tastes of flesh and victory.

"Eat, darling," he purrs, as Will gasps and shivers and meets his gaze, lovestruck and worshipful. "Eat it all."

Will groans, and wraps a hand around Hannibal's nape, and kisses him again.

Hannibal wakes up aching, and rolls onto his side, seeking Will's warmth, his weight, and finding neither. He frowns, and sits upright, seeing no evidence of the previous night aside from the discarded plate and wine glass on the sitting area at the foot of his bed.

His frown deepens, and he climbs out of bed and peers beneath, but sees nothing. His mind is alight, bathed in dragon fire from his dream, and he can still taste blood in his mouth, feel the grip of his sword in his hands. He straightens, and rushes down to his basement.

Before he can turn on the light, he catches sight of a pair of large, golden eyes, shining white teeth. He pauses, and drops his hand, keeping the lights off.

"Will?" he murmurs.

He hears a soft rumble, like the purr of a large cat, and a sweet, low laugh. "Hey, baby," Will replies. "Sleep well?"

Hannibal clears his throat, and nods. "In the future, I'd rather wake up with you next to me."

The golden eyes blink, and move closer. As the light from the kitchen touches Will, his form changes, becoming humanoid enough that Hannibal recognizes him. Still, his eyes remain gold, and his teeth remain sharp, his claws stretched out and his limbs just a little too long.

He approaches Hannibal, and nuzzles his neck, his scent flooding Hannibal's lungs as he breathes in and embraces Will as Will wraps his arms around Hannibal's waist.

Hannibal shivers, and closes his eyes. "Is it done, then?" he asks.

Will laughs, and shakes his head. "You can have that dream as often as you like," he says happily. "We can repaint your home in dragon skin, if it'll make you happy." He pulls back and blinks up at Hannibal, shows him a flash of human iris, that pretty summer-sky blue.

"Does my happiness nourish you as well as fear?"

Will smiles, showing all his sharp teeth. Hannibal touches his chin, wants to feel how sharp they truly are. "You nourish me," he replies. "I told you before – it doesn't have to be fear. It doesn't have to even be _your_ fear." He presses close again, content to nuzzle, and Hannibal's arms tighten around him.

He sighs. "Never leave me again."

A shiver runs through Will, and he clings to Hannibal's back. "I won't," he vows, and lifts his head for a kiss that Hannibal is eager to grant him, teeth and talons and all. "I won't."

**Now**

One of the best cures for anxiety is a solid routine. Hannibal knows, now, how to deal with the creeping dread the locked vaults of his memory hold. He is no longer afraid, no longer anxious. His dreams, when they do come with teeth and darkness, are of his own design – a present, a treat, for his treasured friend.

Still, he is a man of routine in his waking hours. He wakes, makes himself breakfast, goes to the grocery store if he has need of anything, and returns home in time to unpack it all and ready himself for his first client of the day. Then, the humdrum of sheep wailing and moping about whatever terrible blight they have suffered, be it unfaithful husbands, a creeping sense of despair over the state of the world, worry over their children going off to college and getting into 'God knows what'.

He likes to pay more attention to them, now, so that when he is asleep, he can do as he likes with them and entertain himself with their wails in a way far more nourishing.

When the day is done, he goes hunting for his chosen meat – he keeps his basement full to bursting these days, so that neither he nor Will goes hungry. All part of the routine, and one he greatly enjoys.

When he is finished with his hunt and harvest, he prepares what he must, grinds organ meat to make sausages, fillets and sections out thighs, shoulders, and ribs. Removes and vacuum seals kidneys, the liver, the stomach. He breaks down the carcass until it is merely piles of bone, set haphazardly in the corner by one of the drains, knowing now that, come morning time, the bones will be picked clean and ready for disposal when it's convenient.

He sheds his plastic suit and hangs it in the corner, knowing it will be clean come morning. Will no longer leaves him notes, preferring instead to speak with him in his dreams. He does not always slay dragons – sometimes he shows Will other pieces of his memory; shows him the Palermo and the Uffizi, shows him grand halls and lazy afternoons along the Somme.

Sometimes, Will shows him places no mortal man has seen. Places where creatures gather in dark forests, where they can hunt things that have no place in the land of the living. Those dreams usually end with Hannibal against Will, Will's claws in his back and teeth in his neck, moaning and heaving against him as Hannibal imagines Will slick and open and ready for him.

He goes to bed, and removes his clothes of the day, placing his shoes neatly by his closet, unravelling and rolling his tie, replacing it in its drawer since he can wear it again without having to wash it. His suit jacket returns to the closet, along with the matching suit pants, and he unbuttons his shirt and pushes it into the hamper, leaving him in only his underwear and socks. He goes back to his drawers and pulls out a large t-shirt and lounge pants, putting those on, and takes off his socks, balling them up and putting them in the hamper atop his shirt.

He turns the light off as he exits, and smiles when, just for a moment, there is a blinking glow of two large golden eyes beneath his bed, before the glow disappears. He waits before going to his bed, for the now-familiar sight of a single hand, clawing itself free as though Will is pulling himself from tar. Then, a second hand, and he goes to his bed, navigating perfectly well in the dark, and crouches down to help Will free.

Will gasps, and smiles at him, thanking Hannibal for his help with a deep kiss. Hannibal helps him into bed, and climbs in beneath the pulled-back blankets and sheets, settling with a sigh. He eagerly anticipates sleep, and smiles when Will curls up against him, warm and sweet in his arms.

He used to stay up late, reading or working on his notes, but finds that sleep is much more welcome than it used to be. When he was younger, he loathed the idea of losing so much time, and between the life of a surgeon and his extracurriculars, he honed an innate ability to fall into deep sleep rather quickly, and evolved his body to exist on no more than four or five hours a night.

Now, though, he relishes his dreams, craves the moment when his consciousness slips into the unknown, and he can wander the landscapes that used to put him ill at ease. He settles with another sigh, and closes his eyes. Will nudges against his chest, puffs and shifts his weight until he's comfortably placed, and rests a hand over Hannibal's heart.

He smiles. "Goodnight, Will," he murmurs, kissing his hair.

Will purrs loudly, contented and relaxed, and steals one last kiss before Hannibal goes to sleep. "See you soon, baby."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked the story! Please be sure to check out Neph's awesome art! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Link to art: https://twitter.com/HigherMagic/status/1199453124416720896?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/callmenephila/status/1202285244604387328


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